So We'll Go No More A-Roving, for Fear of Furry Monsters
by gravewriter71
Summary: Halloween! Gonzo joins a daredevil reality show more dangerous than anything he's done yet; Kermit and the whole Muppet troupe join in a charity haunted house that's scarier than it appears; game show host Snookie Blyer has to deal with producers, absurd tropes, and Big Mean Carl; and the Newsman cries Monster. His phobia may be justified after all. Features all the Muppets!
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE. _In which a desperate Whatever plots an act of derring-do; a reporter receives a disturbing premonition; a frog and a gofer receive unwanted visitors; and a game show host is throttled._

Gonzo poked a fork unenthusiastically at his sardine oatmeal. He sighed, and forced himself to start eating. Ever since his chickie-love had moved out, though, breakfast just didn't have the same energy, the old thrill of gazing at a yellow beak pecking away on the opposite side of the table…but he needed the protein and fish oil. After all, oatmeal was rightfully advertised as the "breakfast of daredevils." Oh, sure, Camilla still went on casual dates with him, still talked with him and even finished his sentences as old friends are wont to do. But not being a couple anymore…really sucked. Gonzo sighed again. Yeah, there really isn't a better way to put that. Eating breakfast alone sucks. It's like adding insult to the injury of not having anyone to cuddle with. Although it had been several months since the Christmas show in Vegas, and Camilla's startling announcement that she wanted to be single again, Gonzo hadn't yet summoned the strength to dismantle the large nest he'd helped her build on the loft-bunk of their bedroom. MY bedroom, he reminded himself glumly. She's got her own nest now. He thought she was sleeping with the other chickens back at the Muppet Theatre, but couldn't be entirely sure; when he'd last asked her about it, she'd cackled demurely and wouldn't answer outright. Sheesh. I hope she's not roosting with Black Bart, anyway. That guy's got corn mush for brains, and a pathetic little beak… He knew it was masochistic to dwell on any possible romantic entanglements which Camilla might or might not be involved in currently, but flogging himself – mentally or otherwise – was too old a habit to break.

Trying to distract his wallowing brain, Gonzo picked up the morning's edition of the Daily Squeal (sure, it was a rag, but it had better entertainment news than the Scandal) and flipped listlessly through the "Around the Scrapyard" section. "Ehh," he muttered, "a revival of Ten Little Crawdads? That'll never work. The songs are so outdated…" Hmm. An audience-participation show of 'Night, Mother – "bring your own rope"? Might be fun. Wonder if Rizzo would come with me? He and the rat had kicked around the idea of moving in together once more, but Rizzo had been working (well, he referred to it as "work," anyway) at a cheese-packing warehouse over in Brooklyn for vast chunks of hours lately, so they hadn't had time to move his stuff back into Gonzo's apartment.

Not really reading the rest of the paper, the depressed furry whatever—blue in at least two senses—hopped from his chair and went to the kitchen window. He shoved the sash up, grunting. One of the wonderful advantages of this particular studio, apart from the rent control, was its view: he had three windows, and all of them overlooked the back alley. He'd practiced dumpster-diving many times from here, for the fun of it more than the chance of finding useful items others had discarded; Rizzo had chided him, claiming people normally didn't dumpster-dive from ten stories up, but what did the rat know about conservation anyway? Sticking the newspaper out the window, Gonzo squinted, felt the pleasant October breeze on his scraggly fur, adjusted for drift, and let the paper fall toward the recycling bin below at ground level. He opted to stay inside the apartment today; he just didn't have the gusto for dangerous swan dives after breakfast like he used to. He did, however, stick his head out to observe the paper fluttering wildly to its certain doom and eventual reincarnation, probably as toilet paper.

A sudden gust slapped the paper around, sending the ads and inserts swooping in all directions. "Nuts," Gonzo muttered, annoyed. One smaller piece of paper caught an updraft, smacking him in the nose. Spluttering at the abrupt blockage to his nostrils, Gonzo plucked the sheet from his face, then stared at it.

Large, though blurrily printed letters proclaimed: DAREDEVILS NEEDED FOR REALITY TALENT SHOW!

"Really?" Gonzo wondered, perking a bit. He read the small print closely: "A national cable channel is producing a talent competition/reality TV show to debut this fall! Do you like dangerous stunts, wickedly maiming contortions, life-threatening juggling, or suicidal and possibly final performances? Then WE NEED YOU! Compete for fame and fortune before a TV audience LIVE starting THIS THURSDAY! Apply at the Ars Moribunda broadcasting studio by 5 p.m. Thursday the 13th. Bring performance outfit and at least three instruments of destruction. SERIOUS CONTENDERS ONLY!" An address was scrawled, almost as an afterthought, below the printed announcement.

"Oh my gosh! This is too cool! Oh, wow! Camilla! Did you see this…" Realizing his stupidity, he fell silent, saddened. Of course she wasn't here to see it; not that she would anyway, wherever she was. Though her conversational skills were wonderful, she'd always evaded discussions which would reveal her lack of reading ability beyond third-grade level. It wasn't her fault that she'd been forced to go into show business to avoid feeding her farm family before she'd completed school… Disheartened, Gonzo looked back at the ad. Should he even bother? The thrill was gone. Sure, once a daredevil, always a daredevil…but it was so much better when you had an adoring little chickie cheering from the sidelines…or clucking in utter terror as you plunged to certain death, whichever. "Defying death isn't any fun alone," he sighed.

Still…what if…

What if he entered this competition, and just asked her to be watching him on TV? Wouldn't she be impressed when she saw him doing even more dangerous stunts than Kermit would allow onstage? He realized their lovemaking had dwindled into a certain boring security, a while before she'd asked to call it quits. Maybe she'd simply become bored with the ordinary? Well, heck, how many times can your woman whip you with ropes made of fruit roll-ups studded with thousands of whole cloves, or dance with her claws on your bare back while holding you prisoner in a medieval rack, before it gets tired and old? Nodding in growing excitement, Gonzo read the address again. Is that uptown or downtown? Wait…that says "below street level"…maybe it's technically UNDER town? A dungeon! They must have an actual DUNGEON! How COOL is that!

"Yes!" he said aloud, startling a pigeon investigating his open kitchen window. "Oh, Camilla, you just watch! I'll make you proud! I'll show you I haven't lost the magic, and you'll beg to move back in! Woo hoo hoo!" Chortling, Gonzo scurried into the bedroom, lugged his traveling trunk from the closet, flung it open, and started yanking out drawers. "Better bring the purple cape…and the pink spangled tights, who doesn't like spangles? I wonder if they have a snooty British judge? Hmm, better pack the Union-jack Underoos just in case…and the sixteenth-century manacles, Brits like old stuff, yeah, good, good…"

Happily assembling a trunkful of necessities for this next gig, Gonzo felt almost giddy for the first time in nearly a year. Things were looking definitely up.

***

"Would you…would you do me?"

Gina glanced up quickly, a smile immediately spreading across her face. The Newsman stared at her a moment before what he'd said hit him and he blushed. "Er, um…I mean…would you perform a reading for me?"

"I will happily do both, my sweetly blundering journalist," his Gypsy girl assured him, leaning forward in her seat at the kitchen table to plant a kiss on her Muppet's long nose. Her newest Tarot deck was laid out before her; she'd been shuffling through it face-up, getting a sense for the slightly different feel of the cards. Although she'd learned on an old Rom deck her grandmother had owned, she'd collected a number of others through the years, usually picking only the ones which boasted lovely artwork. This one, the Halloween Tarot, she'd bought in honor of the holiday, thinking of doing some street readings for a little extra cash. People always tended to be more interested in having their fortunes told around this time of year. Although Newsie had pointed out his salary more than covered their needs, Gina felt better when she had her own income, and her old-fashioned but not insensitive journalist had agreed. Work had been irregular at the Sosilly Theatre, and she wanted some extra funding for the upcoming gift-giving season.

Newsie sat down next to her, fuzzy yellow fingers curled around the latté mug she'd given him; it was bright orange with smiling jack-o-lanterns stacked to form the handle and a narrow mouth which helped divert coffee into his own wide one without spilling any. He liked the ease of use of the mug (coffee stains were one of the reasons he'd stuck with brown sports coats for so long – if he missed, no one noticed), and the fact that she'd chosen something friendly-looking rather than scary to symbolize the holiday touched him. He sipped the pumpkin-spiced froth atop the coffee, smiling shyly when Gina kissed the resultant blob of whipped cream from the tip of his nose.

Gina looked from him to the cards and back. "Are you sure? I have no idea how accurate it'll be, Newsie…most of the time with this stuff, I've always interpreted based on what I could pick up about the customer. And because of the necklace, I doubt I'm going to get much of a vibe to work with." She shrugged, touching the copper beads around her neck. "I kind of figured my street readings would be a lot of old-style Gypsy shrewdness more than accurate sensings of their futures."

Newsie frowned lightly. "You mean you planned on conning innocent people for money? Gina!"

She giggled at his creased brow. "Not entirely…there is an art to this, you know. A lot of it is about reading body language, looking for clues about their finances and love life and general outlook on things by how they appear. I already know who you are, handsome!"

Only slightly mollified, he tried to push past the heat rising in his cheeks again. "Uh…well…just promise me you won't simply make things up, okay?"

She spread her hands wide over the deck. "Eh, the cards know all, the cards tell all! We only translate for the unwitting!" Newsie scowled again at her mock-Czech accent, and she burst into laughter. "Okay, I promise. If the reading makes no sense at all I won't charge anything. Fair?"

"All right," he agreed, and slupped more of the cream along with the hot pumpkin coffee beneath. He had to admit, he did enjoy her enthusiasm for all things autumnal. He'd always loved the scent of turning leaves in Central Park, and the colors of fall, complementing his own golden-yellow and reddish-brown hues. As long as his beloved's idea of Halloween didn't involve ghosts or scary monsters, he was all for it. "So…how exactly does this work?"

"Well," Gina said, "first you have to hold the deck." She turned the cards all face-down and scooped them into a thick pile, tamping them neatly, then placing the Newsman's broad hands over them.

"Okay…" He gazed at her uncertainly but willingly, and Gina smiled.

He's so cute when he does that, she thought. She loved how trusting he was of her now. Going slowly with him in everything new was well worth it for the devotion and tireless dedication he put into it, once he'd learned what to do, and he seemed always willing to learn, always curious. She pressed his hands upon the cards gently. "Feel them, Newsie. Let your energy flow into them. Concentrate on what you want to know. It can be anything at all…about work, or something about yourself, or your future, or…"

"Or my cousin?" he asked, eyes sharp behind those heavy hornrims.

Sobering, Gina nodded. "We can try, sure. Close your eyes and focus on him."

Newsie had pored over genealogical records online for over a month since discovering he had a cousin, previously unknown to him. All they had to work with was a name – Chester Blyer – and the marriage records of both Newsie's mother and his aunt Ethel, although they knew his mother's was a false one. Neither of them had spoken of that fact much; Newsie was deathly embarrassed about it, and worried for his reputation should Fleet Scribbler or the rest of the hacks at the Daily Scandal uncover it somehow. Gina hadn't brought it up after the first night when she'd tried to reassure her Muppet love that it made absolutely no difference to her what his parentage had been. Newsie had stammered and squirmed and acted so unhappy that she'd desisted, and simply held him and kissed him until he relaxed once more.

Finding anything out about the Blyers had proved frustrating. Day after day, Newsie scoured the Internet, poring through court records, property records, marriage and death records, even police files which a friend at KRAK had quietly given him a source for, all to little avail. The two Blyer sisters had married (or pretended to) here in the city back in the '40s, and Ethel had listed her state of birth as Wisconsin, but he had no idea what city or even which county to search in for a Wilfred or a Chester Blyer. Apparently that state was chock-full of Blyers, and he discovered listings for no less than a dozen Chesters…three of whom had fathers named Wilfred. For all Newsie knew, he might be related to all of them! He'd tried contacting each of them by email, ferreting out their online addresses, but received no replies. Phone queries had followed, but none of the people he spoke to knew anything about sisters named Ethel or Florabeth. Unfortunately, the remaining Chester Blyers he'd found listings for didn't have parents named; perhaps the records were sketchy? He had no idea what year his cousin was born, and the Chesters ranged from quite a bit older than him to Gina's age. He had no idea at this point how professional family researchers kept their patience in the face of missing or inaccurate records, unhelpful county registrars, or surly people assuming he was a telemarketer and hanging up on him repeatedly.

Newsie shut his eyes as directed, felt the smooth surface of the top card under his spread fingers, and thought about his mysterious cousin. Will I find him? Is he still living? Does he know I exist? Newsie wondered. He frowned. What if his cousin didn't want to be found? What if he was some sort of black sheep? Well, figuratively, of course; he doubted any of his conservative family would have married a sheep. What if Chester was in trouble? What if he really hated the name Chester, and had changed it, and vanished from the records? What if he was in the Muppet witness protection program, hiding out from monsters? Newsie had been lucky enough to interview one such unfortunate soul, during an investigative report on those brave Muppets who dared defy the monster racketeers who ruled the Lower East Side back in the '70s…

"Newsie. You're jumping all over. Focus on one question," Gina cautioned him, and he opened his eyes, surprised.

"How…how do you know that?" he asked.

She sighed gently, smiling at him. "Because I know you. Settle down, All-Querying Journalist, and focus." He nodded, abashed, and she giggled. "Besides…you scrunch your eyebrows all cute when you're thinking. Makes it pretty obvious."

"Hmf," Newsie snorted, but closed his eyes again and tried to keep his thoughts centered on one question: Will I find my cousin?

After a silent moment, Gina said, "Okay…now shuffle the cards until you feel like they're where they need to be."

He blinked at her, puzzled. "How will I know that?"

"Trust me. Just let yourself…drift a little. Keep thinking your question, and shuffle the deck."

Trying to set aside his skepticism, the Newsman did as she instructed. Oddly, after a minute of randomly moving the cards around on the table (he'd never been any good at standard card-shuffling, and had been chastised the time his mother had reluctantly made him sit in for an absent player at one of her bridge games and he scattered the deck all over the carpet), he stopped, staring at the loose pile of cards. "Uh…there?"

Gina looked askance at the mess. "Okay…interesting method." Before he could decide whether to retort, she continued, "Now pick three cards off the top."

He did so, and when he shot her an uncertain look, she directed, "Turn them over, one by one."

The first card depicted a man in heavy armor astride an equally well-defended horse, riding at an obviously slow pace while holding a small, fat pumpkin. The man and his steed moved without light into a dark landscape. Gina nodded. "Well, that's definitely you! Knight of Pumpkins…he's steady, dogged, cautious, weighs things carefully but never gives up. A knight of great integrity and determination." She smiled at Newsie; he blushed, smiled back, and turned over the second card. This one looked more disturbing: a hapless man was strapped to a revolving wheel with odd symbols and laughing skulls painted upon it, and apparently knives were being thrown at him as though he was the victim of a carnival act; some already stuck out of the wheel around his body, and he appeared deeply upset about the whole arrangement. Newsie looked worriedly up at Gina. She shook her head. "Don't panic; it's not necessarily bad. The Wheel of Fortune just means a reversal. You've had no luck so far finding your cousin, so maybe this means that luck will turn for the better!" Swallowing back his discomfort, Newsie turned over the third card. Gina paused.

"What…what is it?" Newsie asked, looking from the card to her. A greedy bully on the card, dressed vaguely like a masked bandit, stood on a hill with a hoard of Halloween candy in his arms and at his feet, while in the distance costumed trick-or-treaters stood sad and candyless. A moon-face above seemed to disapprove, and five bats watched nearby.

Gina sighed. "Newsie…you can't take this stuff too seriously. Remember that."

"But what does it mean?" he insisted.

"Well…this is a card about humiliation, about someone being really cruel and unfair. Since I know that's not your style at all, this is about what will be done to you."

"To me? But my question was whether I'd find my cousin!"

"Yes…but the first card is definitely you. Knights are harbingers and fighters and defenders, and you do all that every day in your news job, my brave reporter. Add in the qualities of this particular knight…this is you, Newsie, not your cousin, unless he's just like you, which I doubt." She stroked his nose with one soft fingertip. "There's only one you!"

"But…a change of fortune, and a humiliation?"

"Well," she sighed, leaning forward to place all three cards in a row, studying them, "taken all together, this means you're going to run into some worse difficulty in trying to find your cousin than you've encountered already, and someone is going to block you by putting you through something mean, or bullying you. This last card could represent a person who will stand in the way of your search." She stared at the cards a second more, then swept them all into the pile again, mixing them up. Newsie gave her a hurt, confused look. She took his hands in her own. "Newsie, don't put too much stock in this, please! It's not an exact science, you know."

He swallowed, steadied himself, and took a deep breath. "Do it again."

"Newsie…"

"Please. Do it again." He stared hopefully at her. "If…if the reading was accurate, it should come up again the same, right?"

"No, because now you're just focused on the negative things," Gina argued. Shaking her head, she gathered the cards up and tucked them into a large pouch sewn of autumn-colored strips of silk. "I think that's enough. You're taking this way too seriously."

"But –"

"No buts! Unless you're offering me yours," she said, trying to lighten the mood.

Unpersuaded, the Newsman tried again. "Gina, if those are even remotely right, I need to know more!"

"Aloysius…no." Gina kissed him; he responded reluctantly. "You always need to know more; that's your nature, I get it and I love that about you…but Tarot cards aren't guaranteed predictors! I wouldn't have agreed to do this with you if I'd known you were going to get upset over it," she scolded, though gently. Seeing his disappointed expression, she tousled his hair and smiled. "Now come on. If you're done with your coffee, I could use some help in the shower."

He wasn't done, and he still wanted to find out what was meant by a turn for the worse and a cruel humiliation, but his lovely Gypsy taking him by the hand and coaxing him toward the bathroom, with many teasing kisses, made him give in and set aside his worries for the time being. Once under the steaming water with her, she did something else to help him turn his attention to more positive things…but later, as he dressed for work, the Newsman wondered what was in store for him, and just how much he could safely dismiss the dire warning explicit in his cards.

***

The knocking persisted at the back door. Exasperated, Kermit yelled, "Can someone get that?" He was poring through scattered papers, comparing the shooting schedule for the next movie side-by-side with the theatre's running calendar, trying to figure out which weeks to do what, and how much time to spend in L.A. as opposed to the old stage still going strong in New York. He'd arrived early and tried to have a go at this stuff before his trusty assistant even came in, and was regretting it. Scooter's so much better at figuring this ridiculous nonsense out, Kermit realized. His spirits perked at the sound of the voice coming to his rescue.

"I got it, Chief!" the gofer called as he hurried up from the deserted house seats. He plopped a full-sounding bag with the Donuts á la Snowth pink logo emblazoned on it onto Kermit's desk as he trotted past, and Kermit gratefully inhaled the scent of cinnamon donuts and hot caramel-apple coffee wafting from the bag. As he abandoned the schedules to dig into the perfect autumn breakfast, he heard Scooter talking with someone: "Uh, well, is that really such an issue?... Well, okay…yeah, I guess you can come in…"

Kermit frowned. What now? A fast mental assessment didn't pinpoint what the grievance might be: their power and water bills were paid up; since the renovation of the theatre earlier this year the neighboring tenants hadn't complained so much about the giant spiders or late-night marauding Java worms in the alley's garbage bins; and he'd talked Gonzo out of performing his next act "in the glorious bare felt!" in a futile attempt to woo Camilla back. He turned to see Scooter leading two very dour-looking Whatnots up the back stairs. "Hey, boss? These guys want to talk to you," Scooter said.

"Uh, yes? Can I help you?" Kermit wondered. Both the dull Muppets, he noticed, were dressed almost identically in grey suits and ties, and possessed unoriginal features: one was balding, blue, and had a round grey nose, and the other tall, orange with blue hair, and heavy-lidded. Bland and Blander, he thought.

"You must be Mr the Frog," the orange gent said in a dull, nasal voice.

"That's right," Kermit said, nodding perplexedly.

"We are…" the blue gent began, but Kermit impatiently interrupted.

"Bland and Blander, attorneys at law. Yeah, I've seen your commercials," he said. "Uh, what does a law firm want with us? Did Crazy Harry get caught by Homeland Security again?"

"Er…no. Mr the Frog, we're here on behalf of the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League. Every year, we donate our services to this noble cause, and it came to our attention…" began one of them.

"That you have not heretofore contributed to the fund, and we'd like to formally invite you and your colleagues to do so," the other finished smoothly. Kermit briefly wondered how they told each other apart; even with the differing felt colors, they seemed somehow twins.

"Anti-Discrimination? Why, are people enacting Jim Crow laws against Muppets?" Kermit asked.

The lawyers exchanged a glance. "Who is this Jim Crow? Why does he persecute Muppets?" one asked.

"I think what my boss is saying is, we didn't realize there was any discrimination against us," Scooter jumped in, suppressing a smile. "We've always been treated pretty well here. People love us!"

"Ah, then you are clearly not aware of the struggles many Muppets go through every day, simply to be recognized as equals by the non-felted!"

"And the non-furred," the other lawyer added, and they both nodded sagely.

"Er…no, not that I've ever heard of," Kermit said. "Look, what exactly is it you guys want?"

Bland – or maybe Blander – pulled what looked like a legal summons from inside his coat; Kermit blanched, and Scooter almost moved to intercept it, but the paper was slapped upon the desk with an air of absolute finality. "Then of course you'll want to join us this year and help raise community awareness of Muppets! This is the flyer for the charity walk; we'll send round a courier with the actual sign-up forms later, of course."

"Community awareness?" Kermit repeated, annoyed. "Listen, I doubt there's anyone in the country, much less this city, who doesn't know who we are, and most of 'em love us! I think you guys have the wrong impre—"

"Just give us an estimate of how many of your employees will be participating, and start gathering your sponsors for the walk," Blander said.

"We'll be in touch," Bland added, and the two of them reversed and marched out in perfect step with one another. Scooter and Kermit stared after them, then looked at each other.

"What the hey?" Kermit sighed.

Scooter picked up the flyer gamely. "A charity walk? Sounds pretty tame." He frowned at his boss. "Kinda weird insisting we're victims of discrimination, though."

"Well, whatever. I guess their hearts are in the right place even if their brains seem to be late," the frog sighed, turning back to the mess of calendars and location lists. "Scooter, we need to figure out which weeks we can sandwich in filming, with all the holiday shows coming up…"

"Ya know," Scooter mused, studying the flyer more carefully, "This isn't a bad idea."

"Giving to a charity with no actual purpose is a good idea?" Kermit snorted. "For all we know, those guys are just lining their own designer pockets!"

"Maybe…but look: the walk is on Halloween, through a 'haunted-house' setup, and it's going to be televised live!" Seeing that his boss didn't quite grasp the advantage yet, Scooter continued, "The next movie is supposed to be a comedy-horror flick…"

"And we could plug it by tromping through a spookhouse on Halloween? Hmm," Kermit said, thinking.

"There's sure to be a press junket about it," Scooter offered. "And we could all show up in matching t-shirts, advertising the film."

"We haven't even started shooting it yet!"

"But we're targeting the release date for next Halloween, remember? People associate that sort of thing pretty well, and maybe we'll excite some interest with the spook-movie fans as well as our regular base!" Scooter pulled out a donut and took a large bite of it, chewing while Kermit chewed on the idea. "Plus, I bet the studio will be more willing to negotiate the budget with up-front buzz already out…"

Kermit grinned. "Okay, okay, sold." He dunked his own donut, with spiced mayfly icing, into his coffee and chomped it contentedly. "So, what exactly do we have to do?"

Scooter tapped the paper the lawyers had left. "Looks pretty standard. Any of us who want to join in can; we just each need to get sponsors to pay into the charity fund for doing the walk. I guess they thought a Halloween theme might draw more interest at this time of year. It's more original than the usual call-us-to-pledge thing, anyway…"

Kermit snickered. "Then it's a sure bet those two didn't come up with it!"

Scooter laughed. "No kidding!" He set the flyer aside. "I'll see to posting the signup stuff when it arrives. Now…what did you want to do about the shooting schedule?"

Kermit sighed, and handed over the mess. Yet again, his assistant was here to save the day.

***

The bedraggled show host waited at the back of the cell while the monster tossed a bent metal bowl of plain oatmeal through the bars, snarling at him. Snookie had learned years ago not to protest, argue, or acknowledge the monsters in any way, lest they take out their resentment at serving as cooks and jailers upon him. He sat still and silent until the monster had moved a few cells down the block, banging on bars as it went to awaken the other inmates not yet up. Snookie had no idea what time of day it was; though the monsters called it "breakfast" it might be three in the morning or four in the afternoon, for all he could tell. The cells were dark, dimly lit at all hours by strange glowing worms which crawled randomly on the ceiling. This routine was all he knew anymore: get woken up by the monsters, eat something tasteless likely left over from the tasteless dinner last night, be herded into the shower room to clean himself up (no talking to the other inmates there, at least, not where the monsters could hear you, and some of them had wicked sharp ears), get dressed in one of the several identical brown-plaid sports coats and grey pants they apparently kept around just for him, and go to the studio to film yet another mind-crashingly awful show. And then hurry to a different set for the next show. And then the next one. And so on, sometimes six or seven of them a day, and sometimes one he'd done the day before would never be repeated again; he assumed it all had to do with the ratings, but since he no longer had access to those golden figures he had no idea what the network's criteria for success were. Then back to the cell, where if he wasn't fast enough undressing they'd strip him –horror of horrors, those furry clawed hands pawing at him! – then another bowl of something tongue-numbingly dull, and mouthwash, and bed.

The monsters persisted in referring to that as "lights out," but the one time Snookie had argued that the lights never went out because there weren't any actual lights to begin with, they'd forced him to do the next episode of "Swift Wits" in the nude. He was only grateful he had a podium to stand behind. He wouldn't step out from it while the cameras were on, no matter what the ratings might be!

He sat on his flat, hard bunk and poked unhappily at the cold oatmeal. How the heck did I wind up like this? he wondered for the thousandth time. A bright childhood, a promising college career, the popular guy at all the frat parties, hired right out of school to take over "Name That Fruit: Extreme Muppet Edition" when Guy Smiley retired as host…it had all seemed so perfect! And then…and then…when the ratings tanked after the tainted-kiwi uproar, he'd been humiliated to have to accept the job as host of "Swift Wits."

And then, the stupid little show had been snapped up by this bizarre network, and everything had changed. He'd be given the wrong clues on his cue card to coax the contestants with. Or instead of a cute little puppy, an alligator would be behind the panel and team up with Carl the Big Mean Bunny to eat the contestant. Or the contestant would insist on phoning a friend, which wasn't even allowed… Any one of a boggling array of dismaying things happened to prevent anyone from actually winning the game. And Snookie discovered that his contract contained a host-imprisonment clause for as long as the game went unwon! Who knows how I missed that? I must've been so pathetically desperate for a job I'd have signed anything… Note to self: always read the fine print, he thought grimly. Gallows humor was all he had left.

"Psst! Chester!"

Irritated, Snookie glanced over at the tiny partition where his cell abutted the one to the right. Fawningham Offawump, the cringing, blobby, tuskless walrus who hosted "Beach Party Fling-O," eyed his breakfast. "Psst! Chester! You gonna eat all yours?"

"Call me that again, and you'll be wearing it," Snookie snapped. He regretted ever telling the walrus his real name, back when he was trying to make allies around here. He glanced down at the awful stuff in his bowl, then set it on the floor and shoved it toward the other cell. "Take it. Get fatter. Maybe soon I'll actually be thin enough to slip through the bars."

"Huh, huh," Offawump chortled. "Nuh, your head will always be too big."

"Shut up, will you? They'll hear," Snookie urged, but it was too late. "Gaaahh!" he choked as a thick paw shot through the bars on a ridiculously long arm, clamping around his neck.

"No get through bars!" the monster roared. It shook him like a ragdoll. Desperately he grabbed at the furry fingers, to no avail. "Bad host! Bad!"

He gasped when it finally released him. "I told him not to throw away food," Offawump simpered, but the monster only glared at him before lumbering off again.

Furious, Snookie picked himself off the floor, not bothering to dust off his shorts and dirty grey t-shirt. He waited until all noise on the block died down, and when he was sure the guards were elsewhere, he sidled closer to the placidly chewing walrus and hissed at him, "They're only letting you do that so they can make sure you're as fat as possible when they roast you."

The walrus paused, shooting him a fearful stare. Yellow eyes narrowed, and the walrus shook his head. "You're making that up, Chester! Nah, nah, Chester, Chester, Chesssster!" it taunted, but Snookie was too angry to lose control now.

"I overheard them talking about it yesterday. It'll be called 'Beach Party Blubber Pit,' and they want me to host it," he improvised, forcing himself to whisper. He saw the walrus' whiskers stiffen, and threw home a final jab: "I didn't want to betray a friend like that, but now I think I'll volunteer!"  
"You…you wouldn't!" Offawump said. He stared in fright at the grimly satisfied game show host; Snookie turned away, ignoring the walrus, and grabbed a glow-worm, holding it over the tiny plastic mirror in the corner of his cell so he could see to smooth down his sleek black hair. "Uh…uh…we're friends, right? I mean, uh, here! You can have your grits back!"

"Those were grits?" Snookie grimaced, but still wouldn't face the walrus. He rubbed a broad, yellow-golden hand over his small chin. Hard to tell if he needed a shave or not.

"I was just kiddin'! Oh, come on, Ches—Snookie! I mean Snookie!"

Snookie Blyer took what slight satisfaction he could from the sniveling going on behind him. Frog knows, small and hopelessly empty victories are all we get down here, he thought.

Sighing, he sat on his bunk and waited for the monsters to come get him. Time to start the day. Whatever "day" meant anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO. _In which Rizzo and Pepe dubiously receive the news of Gonzo's new act; our intrepid reporter is given good advice by his rat friday; and Snookie Blyer hosts the Hammily Feud._

Rizzo sighed as the call went to voicemail yet again. "Sheesh. Hey, buddy, dis is like da toid time I've tried ta get hold'a ya! Gimme a call back sometime before twenny-twelve and da woild ending, okay?" He shook his head at Pepe. "Some people! Ya gotta wonder why he even has a cell phone!"

The king prawn shrugged lightly. "So, are we on for the cheese-food wrestling championships or not, hokay?"

"Guess you an' me are, anyway," Rizzo replied. He'd thought his old pal was finally seeing the light about how much better his life could be without a chickie at home, holding him back from enjoying things like guys' night out at the Greasy Napkin (home of beers, buffalo cheese bites, and full-contact bikini cheese wrestling), but since Gonzo wasn't answering his phone, Rizzo worried perhaps his dream of getting their bachelor friendship back on track wasn't going to set sail after all. "Eh, I just don't get it! Last week he was all like, 'Hey Rizzy, how about you an' me revivin' da swingin' bachelor pad again?' and suddenly he don't retoin my calls! I tell ya Pepe, da poor schmuck can't make up his mind what he wants ta do!"

Pepe trotted along after the rat as they headed for the stairs. The theatre canteen had been rebuilt, but the food was as questionable as ever, so lunch options for the smaller Muppets boiled down to what they could steal from the street vendors, or going over to a Greek café where Rizzo had once served as a short-order cook to beg scraps from the new owners. "I think his plumosa mujer is still too much in his head, amigo," Pepe offered.

Rizzo shook his head. "Geez! Speak English, willya? Ya know it drives me loco when I hear youse guys moiderin' da lingo!"

The shrimp bristled all over, which made him suddenly resemble a skinny sea urchin. "Whadda jou saying? I speak English better than jou do! Are jou trying to insult my heritage, jou pequeño peste?"

Before Rizzo could mount a counterattack, Gonzo flew past them, yelling as he ran: "Hey, Chef! Chef! Do you still have that barrel of atomic pepper sauce?"

"Whoa! Hey, watch it, pal!" Rizzo protested, baffled.

"Ya, der storgen der hoogenstoof uv speecy-spicee saucen," the Swedish Chef said from behind the canteen counter, his poufy hat obscuring his face as he nodded.

"Fantastic! Mind if I borrow it for a while? I'll bring back what I don't drink," Gonzo promised. As the Chef nodded and ambled into the storeroom to fetch the hot sauce, Gonzo turned to grin at Rizzo and Pepe still clinging to the stair rail. "Hi guys! You won't believe what cool thing I discovered today!"

"Da Mayor has a sudden cravin' for hot sauce, which only a blue, furry, completely insane creature can provide?" Rizzo frumped, annoyed at being blown past so rudely.

"No, even better! A TV studio right here in the city is hiring daredevils for a new reality show! I'm gonna audition Thursday! Isn't that cool?" Gonzo demanded, eyes wide and bright.

Rizzo knew that look too well. He edged closer to Pepe, differences of linguistics forgotten. "Uh…huh. What exactly is dey hirin' daredevils for?"

Gonzo laughed. "To do mind-bogglingly lethal stunts, of course! It's a competition! I'm practically a shoe-in!"

"Wait, wait, wait. A TV studio is actually asking for jou to come do loco things? Jou're right. I don't believe it!" Pepe snorted.

"Aww, c'mon guys, don't be like that! Don't you see, this could be my big break! You know there's all kinds of great ideas I've been wanting to try for years that Kermit won't let me do here, and—"

"As I recall, dat's been because dose stunts would either burn down da theatre, strip every ounce of skin from your body, or both?" Rizzo pointed out, frowning.

"Well, yeah, but…"

"And now you're all 'oh, sorry Rizzo old pal, but me putting myself in danger of graphic maiming is waaay more important dan guys' night out at cheese-food wrestlin?'" The rat glared at him.

Gonzo looked briefly sheepish. "Uh, well, when you put it that way…yeah! Sorry, Rizzo. But this could be it! And Camilla might…" he shut up suddenly, embarrassed.

"Oh boy," Pepe groaned, rolling his eyes, twitching his antennae.

Rizzo approached his friend, laying a concerned paw on Gonzo's arm. "Listen, buddy…I know you guys were together a real long time an' all, but…she's not comin' back. Ya just gotta man up and accept dat."

"There is plenty more birds in the bush, amigo," Pepe agreed, nodding.

Gonzo shook his head. "Not like that girl, there aren't! Look…I'm sorry I can't come with you tonight. I promise, soon as I win this contest, we'll go out and celebrate, okay?" He happily received the enormous lead-lined barrel with the skull-and-crossbone sign prominently plastered in numerous places over it from the Chef, bowing almost in twain beneath its weight. "Hey, why don't you guys be my assistants? I can always use someone to set off the cannons!"

"Uh, Gonzo old buddy, not dat I don't want a bigger career in show biz, but…" Rizzo paused. "Did you say cannons? As in plural?"

"Oh, yeah! I've got the whole thing planned out! For my audition, I think I'll strike the perfect balance between traditional and postmodern death-defying art: I'll start with being shot out of the small cannon, but then ricochet off the ceiling-mounted trampoline, fly through the hoop of flaming guacamole, land in the larger cannon, be shot out of that along with all the ingredients for chili con carne and land in the barrel of atomic Yo'Mama sauce; my dead-on cannonball dive should send exactly one bowlful-worth of spicy chili con carne into the dishes of each of the judges watching! Dinner and a stunt! It's a guaranteed crowd-pleaser!" Gonzo beamed, despite puffing under the weight of the barrel, which seemed to have sauce oozing out of a small crack in the lead within the wooden staves. Rizzo noticed smoke curling from a widening hole in the side of the barrel.

"I don't think jou will be serving your chili mucho caliente, Gonzo," Pepe muttered, seeing the tiny flames beginning to lick at the barrel as the hot sauce inside came in contact with the oxygen of the room.

Gonzo paused. "Why? You think I should go with the Nikita Khrushchev Pepper Crisis Sauce instead?"

"Run!" Rizzo yelped, scurrying out of range as a noise akin to Chinese fireworks sputtered out of the container. Pepe flattened himself to the floor as the entire barrel, with Gonzo still clinging to it, shot across the room, bouncing up the stairs to the backstage area with spirals of hot flame spurting from the widening crack.

"Whoa-oooh-hoo-hooooo!" Gonzo shrieked, the volatile hot sauce spitting all over his fur, laughing hysterically as tiny flames burst onto his elbows, his back, and the top of his head. Upstairs, cries of protest and yells of terror sounded when the daredevil went up and out as though he was riding his own personal Niagara Falls in reverse.

"Hey! Commenbakker wit der speecy-spicee saucens!" the Chef shouted, shaking his spoon angrily in Gonzo's flaming wake. He took off at a run up the stairs, hoping to salvage some of the sauce for his tapioca pudding surprise he'd planned for tomorrow's lunch.

Pepe disgustedly dusted off his designer yellow denim jacket. "Doesn't he know this was an Oscar de la Groucha original? Two hundreds and ninety-nine on sale, and he tries to turn it into a fried plantano, hokay?"

"A fried what?" Rizzo wondered, not really listening.

"Plantano! Plantano! They grow on trees, they're yellow, jou have to peel them to eat them? Jou never had one?"

"Are you talkin' about a banana? Sheesh! See, dis is just what I was sayin' earlier! You gotta learn da right woids, Pepe!" Dismayed, Rizzo stared up the steps from the green room; the grumbling upstairs meant the dust had probably settled, but the wild-barrel-riding-cowthing could be miles away by now, as fast as that hot sauce had gone through the place. The rat sighed. "Man, I sure hope he knows what he's doin'. Dis sounds even more dangerous dan usual…"

Pepe straightened his jacket with a huff and a toss of his head. "Is not a banana! I am talking about los plantanos!" He marched over to the rat. "Jou are the one who has to learn his words! Now, are we going to get some foods or what?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rizzo muttered. He buttoned his jacket, knowing it would be much chillier outside. "You, uh, you still wanna go to da wrestlin' later?"

"Oh, sí, sí! Are jou kidding? Like I would pass up a chance to put a dollar in the bikinis of las floras?" With two of his hands, he made suggestive curving lines in the air.

Rizzo chuckled. "See? Now dat is language I unnerstand poifectly!" He nudged the king prawn. "C'mon, we better hurry before da lunch crowd gets all da wrinkly hot dogs from da cart outside!"

The pair hurried out of the theatre, hoping to reach the hot dog vendor unnoticed in the lunch rush. "I still do not get why jou likes the overcooked ones," Pepe grumbled as they went.

"Pal, you can't call yourself a New Yawker 'til ya taste a hot dog dat's been sittin' in hot water since last Tuesday!" Rizzo argued, rubbing his large stomach. He attempted to shut the back door behind them, but it seemed to have been knocked off its hinges again; a vaguely barrel-shaped dent in the door hinted at the cause. Shrugging, the rat took his picky-eater friend by the shoulder and steered him toward street-food heaven.

***

Rhonda already had the sloth in position, camera at the ready, when the Newsman arrived on the steps of the courthouse made famous in numerous law-enforcement TV shows. Despite the morning traffic fumes, he could smell the dying leaves on the ornamental maples and boxwoods out front, and even having that scent in his nose as he dug out his notepad and decided what he wanted to focus on in today's Muppet court news segment subtly lifted his mood. Rhonda trotted over, and he nodded at her. "Any updates yet?" he asked.

"Nah, they've been in there all morning. I got shots of Suggs yelling his way up the steps as usual," his news producer replied, shrugging. She brushed her layered blond bob down with a paw when a stray breeze tickled it. "You wanna ambush the prosecutor today, or the defense?"

Newsie frowned, considering it. "They haven't even broken for lunch yet?"

"Nope. And they put extra security in front of the doors…my guess is, Suggs made even more of a racket on the stand than usual." Ever since a paternity test earlier this year had conclusively proven Marvin Suggs was in fact not the father of any of the Benson's Babies (neither was Benson), the former conductor and showbiz impresario had been dragging the matter into court over and over again, trying to insist, apparently, that he might have fathered at least one of them and should be held responsible for child support…at least, that was his claim as of this week. The story seemed to change every few days, and Newsie for one was becoming irritated with it.

He sighed. "So, no new developments with the ousted juror?"

Rhonda shook her head. "Haven't seen him. Guess he figured his fifteen minutes of fame were up. You find anything to suggest he's a plant by the prosecutor?"

"If he was, I haven't been able to prove it, and neither has Suggs," the Newsman snorted.

"Well, they might be a while, at this rate. Wanna go ahead and do the stand-up?"

"All right," Newsie agreed. He glanced through his notes once more, fixing the details of the case thus far in his memory…no small task, considering the number of twists and outrageous claims which had come up in the course of this unusual trial. Rhonda conferred with Tony the camerasloth…no, wait, Tommy...and signaled to Newsie they were ready for him. The Newsman checked the angle of the sunlight, placed himself on the steps carefully so as to avoid pedestrians hurrying into or out of court, and reflexively adjusted his tie before beginning. "Ahem. This is a Muppet News Update! From the steps of the New York County Courthouse, this is your Newsman, for KRAK. Things were quiet today in this, the fourteenth day of the third appeal hearing for the Marvin Suggs case. Far more quiet than yesterday, when an uproar resounded through these hallowed halls," (he winced slightly but otherwise ignored the ferocious roar of some fierce animal from within the formal entryway a few steps up) "…as it was discovered that one of the jurors hearing the case was, in fact, a Muppaphone. The former employee of Mr Suggs had gone through jury selection with both prosecution and defense lawyers and apparently had escaped the notice of both, until yesterday when Juror Number Eight stood up and soundly descried a statement made by Mr Suggs on the stand that he had, quote, 'Never mistreated anyone in his entire life!'" Newsie frowned at the camera. "Pandemonium ensued, and the defendant had to be returned to his cell in cuffs after producing a giant mallet from his underwear and chasing the juror around the courtroom." He noticed Rhonda looking bored, and hastened to add what little he knew to the report so it wouldn't be just a rehash of yesterday's news. "Extra security has been spotted outside the courtroom today, and although the prosecution presumably would like to see this case wrapped up as quickly as possible – er – hey!"

Newsie struggled ineffectually as two beefy guards suddenly pounced on him, rolls of colorful paper, ribbons and tape flying. Dusting their hands in satisfaction, they strolled away, leaving Newsie peeking bewildered out of a tight, vaguely Muppet-shaped gift package, with the hand holding his mic sticking out. "Uh…ahem." Though muffled, he was able to make himself heard. "There may yet be another twist to this already bizarre court drama, since Suggs' lawyer, Jim 'Snicker' Snakk, is calling for a mistrial." He sighed. "Until someone unravels this mess, for KRAK, I'm the Newsman."

Rhonda grinned at him. "I think rainbow happy faces is so you, Newsie! Save some of that for a new tie!"

"Can you just get it off me?" Newsie grumbled.

The sloth checked the playback while the dainty rat helped Newsie untangle himself from the gift wrapping. "So, which camp do we want to interview today?" Rhonda asked again while Newsie stuffed the crumpled paper and fluttering ribbons into a nearby trashcan. She'd saved a tiny length of pink-and-white ribbon, and was clearly more intrigued by using it for a novel way to put her hair up than in the story. Admittedly, though, this case had dragged on for quite some time, and Newsie wondered if their audience really cared anymore. Suggs would undoubtedly posture and preen and protest for any camera he saw, but that stuff was more suited to the gossip rags as far as Newsie was concerned.

He glanced up at the imposing grey building, and shook his head. "I'm not sure either of them really should be newsworthy any more. What if we went down to City Hall instead, and followed up on that tip about monster sightings by Con-Ed workers?"

Rhonda glared at him, hands on tiny hips. "You and your monsterphobe obsessions! Come on, isn't that just this year's alligators-in-the-sewers myth?"

"Maybe…but if there really are more monsters moving into the undercity, people have a right to be warned!" Newsie argued, blushing a little.

The rat weighed the idea, scowling. She'd already had that expression in her repertoire, but her close association with the Muppets' champion scowler (next to Sam the Eagle, of course) had sharpened her already-sharp features whenever she put forth a deep, doubting look. "Hmm. Well, okay, not that I think there's anything to these crackpot reports your cop friend keeps telling you about, but…"

Shrieks from behind them made them both whirl around to look. A blue, wild-eyed, ululating Muppet in a prison jumpsuit, with custom-cut sleeves resembling an orange flamenco shirt, bounced down the courthouse steps. Hot on his heels were twenty or thirty small fluffy balls with glaring eyes and angry mouths, and right after them four guards scrambled to catch up. Newsie stared as Marvin Suggs grabbed a truncheon away from a policeman and swung around to whack the nearest Muppaphone. It yelped, but immediately half a dozen others leaped upon the crazed bandleader, thumping his head with their furry bodies. The guards jumped into the fray, and the steps became a frothing mass of flying pink and orange fur, swinging billyclubs, yowling tiny creatures, cursing men in uniforms, and here and there a blue face popping up to yell "Yi-yi-yi-yi-yi!" before disappearing in the whirlwind again. Tommy raised the camera, but looked over at Rhonda. Rhonda looked at Newsie. Newsie frowned. Rhonda signaled "cut" with a slash of her paw at the sloth, and he lowered the camera, sighing.

"Seen it," Rhonda growled.

"Same thing as yesterday," Newsie muttered. "Does he really think this is still news?"

"Does he really think?" Rhonda countered. She took her reporter by the elbow. "Eh, come on, Geraldo. Let's go see what's in Al Capone's basement."

"Doesn't he wear a toupee?" Newsie snorted, smoothing down his wind-mussed hair. "Mine's all real."

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. And your nose is bigger, and you dress even worse, we know. Come on. We'll grab lunch on the way."

"After that comparison, you're buying!" Newsie informed her. The sloth slowly packed up his camera and lugged it after them as they walked down the street, ignoring the commotion still going on in front of the courthouse. A group of frazzled Muppaphones jeered at Suggs even as they were also led into custody for assault; a rookie cop allowed his Muppaphone to slip free of its handcuffs and suddenly the brawl began again, with shouts and yelps and groans echoing into the high colonnade of the stately building. "Rhonda?... Do you…do you know anything about tracking down lost relatives?" Newsie asked.

The rat shrugged. "Eh, I might know a guy who knows a gal who used to date a guy who finds lost people who don't wanna be found, if that's what you're asking."

Newsie considered that. "Uh…I'm not sure that's necessary…"

Rhonda blinked at him in sudden comprehension. "Oh, this is about your cousin, huh? Still no luck?"

"None," Newsie sighed. "I'm running out of leads, and ideas."

"Why don't ya just ask your auntie?"

He grimaced. "Rhonda…she's barely lucid anymore! Last week she thought I was the milkman, and lectured me on the difference between cream-top bottles and actual cream for an hour!" Despite the utter futility of hoping one day his senile aunt might recognize him, Newsie had visited her once a week for two months now, sometimes with Gina, sometimes on his own, but he couldn't tell whether his pilgrimages served any useful purpose at all for either him or Aunt Ethel.

"Doesn't she have any family records? Photo albums? Anything that might give you a clue where to search?"

"I don't know…"

Rhonda paused, glaring up at him. "Excuse me! You do what for a living?"

Nettled, he glared back. "I report the news! Faithfully, truthfully, and thorou—"

"Did I ask for your freakin' News Scout oath? Do you or do you not also investigate, oh clueless not-yet-a-star-anchor?"

"Yes!" Newsie snapped, and Rhonda nodded smugly.

"Then shall I suggest you actually do some investigating, next time you're moping around your aunt's room at the funny farm?"

"I…" Newsie stopped the retort on his tongue. He blinked. "I…I've never been in her room! Usually we visit in the dayroom, or the play lounge…"

"Sheesh. I don't even wanna know what that is; sounds like something Pepe would enjoy far too much! So Newsie – go check out her room! I'm sure she must have something there that would give you more info on that mysterious family of yours!"

Feeling negligent that he hadn't considered that, simply having assumed residents' private rooms were off-limits, Newsie fell silent, resuming his walk. He looked down when he felt a soft pat on his arm. Rhonda gave him a sympathetic look. "Sorry. But really…you should check it out."

"Yes," Newsie agreed with a sigh. Despite the rat's overbearing manner, she did try to help him – usually – and she had brought up a good point. "I will! You're right."

Rhonda smirked. "Aren't I always? Trust the rat, Golden Boy. Never steer ya wrong. Speaking of…do you smell what I smell?"

Newsie sniffed tentatively, his sensitive nose immediately filled with a dozen conflicting scents from the street environment. "Uh…day-old sandwiches being passed off as fresh, or unidentifiable crustaceans spiced with too much cumin?" He squinted dubiously at a gaggle of street vendors' carts not far from the courthouse, where men and women in dark suits already queued up for on-the-go power lunches.

Rhonda smacked his arm, grinning. "No! Grouch-tossed salad with moldy Roquefort dressing! I am so all over that! Come on!" She tugged at his jacket sleeve before scurrying into an alley opening, where a gray-furred Grouch was jeering loudly as she flung disintegrating heads of lettuce at complaining passersby, following up with streams of thick, pinkish stuff shot out of a Muppablaster squirt cannon.

"But I like this jacket," Newsie muttered, glancing down at his new orange-and-brown-plaid sports coat and brown tie with tiny red-and-yellow leaves printed all over. He watched Rhonda begin a complicated argument which was the Grouch form of price-bargaining, sighed, steeled his nerves to accept whatever came flying his way, and headed after his news producer. Well, at least he'd get some leafy greens for lunch. Gina was always telling him to eat more veggies…

***

The spotlights swirled back and forth, and like a desperate moth, Snookie found himself drawn to the light center stage. He stepped into it and smiled a big frozen grin for the camera as the stage brightened around him. "Hey! It's time to play the country's favorite trailer-park-poll game – the Hammily Feud! Yes, back this week we have last week's champion hams, the Puercitos family of Judgment Gap, Arizona!" Snookie read blithely and quickly off the TeleMonSter screen in front of him as the ropelights chased in circles around a grunting, snorting, waving-at-the-camera-happily group of pigs. "Ha ha, they look like they're ready for a rip-snorter! Hey, Mr Puercito, what are your thoughts on returning as champions to play today with ten thousand dollars already in your grubby little pockets? I'll bet you feel as rich as a pig in a mudbath!" he rattled off the inane comments from his screen as he kept grinning for the camera and faked a hearty slap on the shoulder of the father of the clan.

The pig grunted, "Well, uh, like I tried to tell you yesterday, Snookie, we're not pigs, we're actually javelinas, and—"

"Fan-tastic!" Snookie barged ahead, hurrying to the other side of the stage. "And tonight to challenge them, here are the latest family of hams to try their tiny brains against our board of gossip, rumor, and false opinions: the Lechadas of Los Alamos! Hi, pigs! So it says here that you were present at the nuclear tests in the nineteen-fifties?" Snookie raced on, glancing only briefly at a cue card in his hand.

The mother of this family, a skinny sow with a drooping bustline and what might have been an extra head poking up over one shoulder, smiled and batted her eyelashes at the host. "Well, Snookie, that was actually my grandpappy, but you know what they say about family resembl—"

"O-kay!" Snookie yelled, ignoring them, tossing his cues away with a flourish. "Enough small talk! It's time to play the Hammily Feud! All right, Puercitos, as our two-week champions you start off our game! The category chosen tonight and with all answers pulled from our highly scientific poll of pigs we found lolling in barnyards all over America is…" He waited a second for the obligatory drum roll before announcing, "Things you can fit up your nose!"

Canned applause seemed to baffle the contestants, who peered out into the darkness behind the cameras, seeking an imaginary audience. "Uh, okay, Snookie…I think the most popular answer is…onions!" Mr Puercito said smugly. His family nodded, grunted, and slapped each other on the backs.

"Survey says?" Snookie yelled up at the giant board suspended behind them. With a clang, one of the pieces of cardboard covering an item fell away, revealing ONIONS writ in large chalk letters. "Excellent choice Puercito family! Go again!"

The southwestern pigs received correct answer clangs of the dinner bell for hot peppers, turnips, and dirt, then lost control of the board with a wrong answer of cactus. "Oh no I'm so sorry that is wrong! So you will have to sacrifice one of your family members to the pot," Snookie told them, immediately turning to the Lechada family. Behind him, the startled javelinas tried to flee, corralled suddenly by large monsters in cowboy hats and chaps (sheesh, he so despised these cheesy "themed shows"), and the little brother of the family was stuffed, oinking loudly, into an enormous cauldron shoved onstage. "So, Lechadas! Things you can fit up your nose, you have thirty seconds go!"

"Uh…uh…" A large, rotund pig with greenish fur rubbed his nose, bewildered. Clearly not the brains of the family, Snookie thought.

The mother scratched her head, rubbing the secondary head with her other hand. "Huhhh…oh! Tacos!"

Snookie consulted the board; a large white rabbit with bulging eyes and huge teeth glared down at him. Repressing a shudder, he asked, "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific! What kind of tacos – soft or crunchy?"

"Oh, crunchy! Crunchy!"

Clang!

"Yes! Go again!"

The game dragged on another few minutes like this. Eventually, all the pigs but one member of the Lechadas was stuffed into the large (and now steaming) cauldron, and every item on the menu board had been uncovered. "The Lechada family has the last member standing, so they win this week's round! And now for the extra bonus prize, looking at all the items on our poll board, can you tell me what else all these items could be categorized as?" Snookie asked, gesturing at the chalkboard overhead.

Little Boopie Lechada, the grade-school-age baby of the family, trembled and looked from Snookie to the board. "Uh…uh…Mr Snookie? Can I please get my family back now?"

"Oh no, I'm sorry, the correct answer was lunch for a monster! And with that bell, our time for this week is over! Tune in next week and see two totally unprepared teams go at one another and wind up in the pot anyway on Hammily Feud!" Snookie shouted at the camera, hurrying off the set.

"Bell? What bell? There wasn't a bell!" the porcine child protested as the monsters dragged her away to join the rest of the pigs in the simmering pot. Carl the Big Mean Chef hummed contentedly as he diced onions and crumbled taco shells into the mix.

Snookie paused to mop his face with a makeup towel. He hated it when they cooked right onstage like that; the ventilation down here really wasn't sufficient, and the studio always steamed up, and he was prone to breakouts. He glared up at the yeti lumbering over with a clipboard. "Yeah, yeah, fine, I know. Next set." He sighed. "What show's next?"

The yeti growled something, pointing at him. Unhappily, Snookie headed for the exit and the next studio down the dank hall. The snorts and squeals from the cauldron made him pause and glance back. Although he knew (from far too much personal experience) that monster digestive tracts were so unsophisticated they usually only dissolved your clothing before you were…er… deposited back out, usually whole, he still hated to see them eat a kid. Even a tubby, pigtailed, shrilly squealing one. Seeing the giant plug trailing off from the hot-plate of the cauldron to the wall next to the makeup table, he diverted his path quickly. "Uh, just let me touch this up a sec – whoops!" All the power in the studio conked out as he managed to trip over the plug. He heard piggish shrieks and angry, hungry roars. Yellow yeti eyes fixed him in their glare, the plug was shoved back in the socket, Snookie offered up his best aw-shucks-I'm-an-idiot grin…and saw that not one of the pigs in the pot had taken the opportunity to escape.

"Grawwwfurrrrah!" the yeti snarled at him, gesturing angrily with its clipboard, then pointing to the Mickey Mouse watch on its hairy white wrist.

"I know, I know! Sorry about that! You know me, feet always ahead of my brain!" Snookie laughed lightly, hurrying from the room. Well, at least they didn't catch on and stuff ME in this time, he thought, disgruntled. Not my fault if those guys are too thick-headed to make a run for it!

At the side of the pot, Carl chuckled while he shook more sea salt over the sloshing, scrambling pigs. He'd noticed the game show host's deliberate accident, but he'd let it slide for now. He already knew stewed host wasn't as tasty as boiled pork…and he also knew a barbeque cookoff competition show was scheduled later this week. Grinning widely at his cohorts as they gathered around to steal sips before the broth was fully done, he thwacked the claws of one, and daydreamed about a yellow-felted host turning slowly in a pit of mesquite coals.

Hmmm, Carl mused. Would he taste better with honey Frackle Daniels sauce, or Day-After Lawrence Kansas Meltdown Rub? Decisions, decisions… He smacked a grasping, gasping javelina back into the bubbling broth. "Wait until you're done!" he snarled at it, and then resumed his drooling while he weighed his cookoff-entry options. After all, it was a sure bet he wouldn't be the only monster choosing game show host for his dish!

And Carl really wanted to win this time. The grand prize, he'd heard tell, was a month above ground in the city…


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE. _In which the Newsman is mercilessly teased but doesn't mind; a charity event gains grudging participants and rats move in; and Gonzo has an ominous Tarot reading._

Wednesday morning brought pleasant confusion…pleasant for Gina, at least, as she watched her Muppet love dashing around the apartment half-dressed. "Where's the fire?" she yelled as Newsie ran out of the bedroom for the third time in five minutes. "You don't need to be anywhere for hours yet!"

A long pointed nose poked through the open bedroom door, and worried eyes stared at her through heavy lenses knocked askew. "But I wanted to get to the asylum before eleven, so I could see Aunt Ethel in her room! I called ahead and they said I'd be able to catch her there if I arrived before she goes to lunch!" He vanished again. Gina bounced her heels lightly on the thick throw rug next to the low bed, sitting among the rumpled sheets and quilt. She pushed her hair out of her face, smiling as she listened to Newsie frantically thumping up and down the hallway in search of frog knows what now.

"Anything I can help with?" she called, and within seconds he hurried back in, breathless, his comb in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other. Gina scowled at him, swiping the can playfully before he could stop her. "Newsie! I thought we agreed you looked much cuter without the plastered-down style?"

Annoyed, he tried to grab the hairspray back; she yanked it over her head, out of his reach, grinning. He gave her an impatient huff, then shut the bedroom door to view himself in the long mirror mounted on the back of it, and hurriedly combed his thick but flyaway-fluffed hair into its standard part to his right. Gina giggled, shaking her head. "Honestly! You look gorgeous. Slow down!"

His comb snagged in his hair, making him grunt in unexpected pain. Gina patiently took the comb away, wrapped one arm around his waist, and pulled him onto the bed. Sighing, Newsie submitted to her attentions, recognizing she was much better at this sort of thing than he was, especially when in a hurry. "I keep telling you, using conditioner every morning will solve that without making you look like you sewed it in place," she grumbled at him, efficiently teasing his hair into proper order with short strokes of the comb.

"I didn't have time," Newsie growled back, buttoning his shirt while she finished the job. He shot her a wry look over his shoulder. "As you may recall, I was kept somewhat occupied all morning and got to the shower late! Er…not that I didn't like, um…that is…"

Utterly unrepentant, Gina laughed. She released him, and he bounced from the bed immediately, looking through the numerous ties he'd hung in precise color-coordinated groupings in the closet. Gina grinned, noting he hadn't even picked out pants yet. "Basing the outfit around the shorts today? That's new. Kind of bold – I like it!"

The Newsman looked down at himself, flushing pink as he suddenly realized he was jumping all out of order; so far, the plain white button-down shirt, a pair of brown argyle socks, and the red-and-brown falling-leaf motif boxers he'd pulled out of his dresser drawer at random this morning were all the progress he'd made toward clothing himself respectably. "Let me help," Gina suggested, flustering him further when she languidly rose and sauntered to the closet…wearing nothing at all herself.

"Ah…er…" Newsie gulped, averting his gaze.

She waggled two ties at him. "Okay, what about these? You like the tiny oak leaves or the brown stripey one better? I think the oak leaves match your shorts."

Newsie dared a peek, regretting it when he saw quite a bit more than the ties. He blushed again. "Gina!" She laughed delightedly when he hastily threw his hands over his face, then with eyes tightly shut, pointed vaguely at her. "Uh…uh…fine! The leaf one!"

"You're pointing at something else, dear Modest Journalist…"

"Ack!" He turned his back before her teasing could completely derail his intention to get on the train for Queens as quickly as possible. "Er…um…could you…could you throw a robe on? I mean, not that I don't, uh, appreciate…um…but I really…er…" Exasperated, he sighed, glanced back at his grinning Gypsy love, and crossed his arms over his chest with a scowl. "You know what that does to me!"

"Mmm, don't I though," Gina purred, but with a smile she obligingly shrugged into her slinkiest, thigh-length red paisley robe. "There. Better?" She knotted the sash loosely around her waist.

Newsie saw she'd deliberately allowed the robe to reveal as much as it covered, and sighed, conceding defeat. "Thank you." He accepted the tie from her, tossing it around his neck and fumbling with broad fingers to knot it correctly. "The russet coat or the chocolate one?" he wondered. Having more colors in his fashion vocabulary now than brown plaid still baffled him; he was convinced Gina and Rhonda must trade notes about his wardrobe behind his back, judging by the comments both offered unsolicited whenever he picked what he wanted to wear any given day. Sometimes it was just simpler to entrust that decision to his beloved. Quieter, anyway.

"You have the news tonight, right?"

"And the Muppet Show," he agreed, calming somewhat as he finally coaxed the tie into a decent Windsor knot.

"Hmm…go with the russet, and the charcoal pants."

"Okay," he agreed, and promptly dressed the rest of the way. As he sat on the edge of the bed to tug his saddle shoes on, Gina leaned over to stroke his cheek with light fingers, and he gave her a smile. "Thank you."

"You're always welcome, gorgeous." Ah, and there was that adorable blush again. Some days she felt like tossing compliments at him continuously just to see how pink she could turn him. "I thought visitor's day was Thursdays at Shadowy Mile?"

"Shadows on the Dial," he corrected her, though he could tell at once from her smile that she was teasing again. "Technically, it's visiting hours, every day; but they said I might get better results if I made visiting a strictly-scheduled event." He grimaced briefly. "That doesn't seem to have worked yet."

"Well, okay…so why today? Did something change?"

Embarrassed, Newsie realized he'd forgotten to tell Gina that he intended to poke around in Aunt Ethel's private room at the retirement home for the dangerously senile. Last night, when they'd returned from dinner after his stint at the Muppet Theatre, Gina had launched into paperwork for her own theatre, drafting by hand a light plot for the next show at the Sosilly, a production of Pinter's "The Homecoming" they were putting on around Thanksgiving. He hadn't wanted to disturb her and had quietly buried his nose in a book about press censorship until they went to bed. "Oh, er…well, Rhonda actually had a good suggestion…" He hastily told Gina what he planned.

"That's a good idea," she said, startled. "Why didn't I think of it?"

"I'm a little ashamed it didn't occur to me." Newsie replied. He shook his head. "Anyway, you've been busy with your design work."

She knelt to give him a hug. "I know. Probably too much. I'm sorry, Newsie. By all means, go! Go forth and find the answers you seek, brave knight!" She returned his relieved smile, and kissed him. He saw her hand coming and ducked out of reach before she could muss his hair, and she laughed. "Hey! C'mon, I love doing that!"

"I love you doing that too," he murmured shyly, then did his best to look stern. "But I have to look professional! So – so –"

"So I'll just pounce on you later tonight," she agreed, making him smile. "Go on, Valiant Journalist! Get thee to Queens, and quest for your cousin!"

She loved it that he jumped three inches in the air, completely unprepared for her playful slap on his rear as he left the apartment. He was still bright pink and bright-eyed when the elevator doors closed. Chuckling to herself, Gina turned to her own side of the closet. Sooo…what says 'professional fortune-teller' without looking too stereotypical? she mused, flipping past dresses and blouses and skirts until she found something she liked.

An hour or so later, she was shifting uncomfortably on her old camp stool, and warily eyeing the beat cop strolling up the sidewalk. Although she wasn't hassling passersby on the corner, simply sitting and making herself available to anyone who might want their cards revealed, she hadn't bothered with the nicety of an actual license for this – what self-respecting Gypsy ever would? – and suddenly realized Newsie would worry if he found out she'd been cited for street peddling. Swiftly packing up her small folding card table and stool, she walked off. Rats. Where can I set up and not be harassed? she wondered. Wait…rats! That might work…if Kermit lets THEM hang around, maybe… Worth a try… She turned her steps toward the Muppet Theatre.

***

Scooter blocked their path as soon as the two shortest members of the company stepped down into the green room. "Hey, did you guys want to join in the charity walk?"

"What? Walking for charity? Of course I would be happy to show off my newest fall fashion finds! Ah – how much would be my fee for the modeling?" Pepe asked the gofer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur.

Rizzo shook his head. Scooter corrected the prawn: "Not a catwalk, a charity walk! The kind where you get people to pledge their support for the cause if you complete the walking course!"

"Wait, jou mean there is actual physical labor involved? Because I do not do that."

"Sheesh," Rizzo muttered. "Hey, what's da cause, Scooter?"

"Uh…it's to support the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League. I, uh, should also mention the boss likes it… We're thinking of using it to help promote the new film."

"Wait. Ya mean dat film dey ain't even started filmin' yet?" Rizzo wondered. Scooter shrugged.

"Well, yeah. But it's got a Halloween theme, see – the walk, I mean – well, the film does too, and –"

"Don't twist yer shorts in a knot, Cecil da Mille, I get it," Rizzo interrupted. Scooter shot him a glare, tapping his fingers on his ever-present clipboard. The rat sighed. "Good publicity all around, yeah, okay. Will dere be catering?"

"Will there be beautiful womens?" Pepe chimed in.

Scooter shrugged. "The sign-up sheet with all the details is over there on the bulletin board! Just remember, if you sign up, you gotta get at least three sponsors to contribute!" He leaned over Rizzo with a warning frown. "In money, not cheese!"

"Whatevah."

"Sí, sí, we look but we promise nothing, hokay?" Pepe agreed huffily. When the gofer hustled off to whatever mission he'd originally been about, the pair gave in to curiosity while feigning complete disinterest. Pepe tried to read over Rizzo's shoulder as the rat perused the charity walk rules. "This is very poor timing, hokay? Why didn't they do this on some other day besides the New York Day of the Dead?"

Rizzo stared blankly at him. "What da heck are you babblin' about? It says it's on Halloween night! Lemme guess, you were plannin' on trick-or-treatin'?" He snorted. "What were you gonna go as, a lobster?"

Pepe sniffed. "Funny. Jou funny rat. Not that it is any of jour business, but the spooky night is the biggest party night in the city, hokay, except for New Jear's! I already have three costume parties which have booked me as the guest of honor, jou know." He struck a pose, hands on hips, antennae high in the air. "It would be rude to my fans not to reward them for their faithful worship, jou know."

"Oh, bruddah," Rizzo sighed. "Yeah, right! Or can it be dat you're just chicken when it comes to spooky t'ings?"

"What? What jou call me?"

"Bawwwwk," Rizzo teased. "Bawk, bawk, bawk!"

Pepe put a concerned hand on the rat's shoulder. "Jou have been spending too much times with your weirdo friend, I am thinking. Jou starting to sound like him. Jou taking a bird for your girlfriends too?"

"You moron!" Rizzo snapped, waving the sign-up sheet in Pepe's face. "See right here? It says da walk will be t'roo an actual, live haunted house!"

Pepe paused a beat, staring back. "If it is a haunted house, can they call it live?"

"Well apparently so, 'cause it also says da whole t'ing will be shown on live TV!" Rizzo read over the rules once again.

"Jou're making the whole haunted house thing up," Pepe objected. "Let me see that!"

"Hey, I ain't done readin'!"

The two wrestled with the paper a moment until it ripped in half. Noticing several other Muppets turning disapproving looks upon them, Rizzo sheepishly handed the other half of the sheet to Pepe. "It says so, right dere," he muttered, pointing out the venue's location.

Pepe skimmed it, then looked up with wide eyes. "Madre de las camerónes! Does Kermins know this?"

Rizzo shrugged. "He must! Ya know dat gofer and da frog, t'ick as t'ieves, da two of 'em!" The two considered it all silently a moment. "Ya t'ink dere's anyt'ing to it?"

Pepe huffed contemptuously. "Of course not! There is no such thing as ghosts, hokay?"

"Oh, den you won't mind signin' up for dis, huh?" When he saw Pepe pause uncertainly, Rizzo taunted, "Dat's what I t'ought! King Prawn? More like chicken of da sea!"

"Oh yeah? I do not see jou putting your names on this already!"

"Oh yeah?" Rizzo retorted. "Hey, hey Zoot! Ya gotta pen, man?"

They waited impatiently as the saxman searched slowly through his jacket, bewildered to find his wallet and keys in his pockets. Rowlf leaned down with a ball-point. "Uh, use this."

"T'anks," Rizzo replied, promptly scribbling his name with a flourish upon the sheet. Pepe snatched it away.

"Jou used two lines!" he complained.

"So? I write big. So what?"

"Are jou signing jour big head up separately?" Pepe asked, smoothly penning his own signature in elegant cursive with an unnecessary swoop at the end.

"Since when does da letter 'E' have all dem curlicues?"

Before the argument could escalate again, Scooter popped over the short balustrade to the green room stairs. "Rizzo! Hey, Rizzo!" When the rat looked up, Scooter jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's a bunch of rats up here wanting to talk to you!"

"Dere is? Uh, dere is!" Surprised, Rizzo hurried upstairs, Pepe immediately behind him. An entire contingent of dirty, mangy rats stood uncomfortably just inside the back door. Straightening his shoulders, Rizzo strode over to them. "Yes, may I help you?"

"'May I help you?'" one of the rats muttered snidely. "I told you dis was a bad idea!"

"Shh!"

"Uh, yeah…we, uh…we hoid you gots space here for lotsa rats, and dat sometimes youse guys let uddah rats in," said a shifty, whiny-voiced rat at the front of the group.

Pepe drew Rizzo aside to whisper loudly, "Be careful, amigo. They look like they have fleas."

"We do not!" another rat snapped, but was quickly shushed by others.

"Look, Mac, we ain't asking for room and board, just a place ta sleep at night. We'll forage for ourselves," the lead rat pleaded. "T'ings is getting' a little weird in da sewers lately. C'mon…I see ya got lotsa space!"

"Weird in the sewers?" Pepe repeated, dubiously regarding the scraggly clothing and dirty fur of the entire group. "Like it's not already weird to be living in the sewers, hokay?"

"Well, uh, well…" Rizzo stammered, taken aback at the request. Several of the rodents made sad eyes at him…including one young lady with a cute gingery punk hairdo. Struck by the happy coincidence, he pronounced, "Yeah, okay, just for now, you can sleep in da t'eatre – but ya gotta pay me re—"

Scooter suddenly planted his feet nearby, glaring down at the whole company of rodents. "Er – I mean, sponsor da cause! Yeah…be my sponsors for dis charity t'ing, and I'm sure da other guys around here will forgive a missin' sweet roll or two… Speakin' of…" He sidled up to the ginger rat. "I can show ya a pretty sweet roll, sister, if you're innerested!"

The rat looked briefly annoyed, but glanced at the lead rat, glumly twitched her whiskers, then managed a girlish giggle for Rizzo. "Heh, heh, right dis way, beautiful!" Rizzo said, draping an arm around her shoulders. "Everyone else, pony up! Five cents a night!"

Loud grumbling arose, but the lead rat rebuked them: "Would you raddah be down dere tonight? In da dark? Wit' dose sounds?" The entire group abruptly shut up, then grubby paws reluctantly reached into grubbier pockets to fork out nickels.

"Hey, that is not fair!" Pepe complained. "How am I supposed to get so many sponsors?"

Over his shoulder as he led the grudging lady toward Chef's pastry display in the canteen, Rizzo cackled, "Eh, why don't ya go down to da seafood joint an' hit up da scallops? You were such a good spokeshrimp for 'em I'm sure dey'd return da favor!"

Pepe snorted, watching the sewer rats stack their nickels on the floor where Rizzo had indicated. "Unbelievable!"

***

Gonzo's fur had mostly recovered – the singed bits flaked off in the shower – and he gazed up at the perfect blue sky as he walked along, bundled up nattily in a long yellow-and-black striped Merino scarf which perfectly contrasted against the brown plaid jacket, brown-and-orange-checked pants, and cozy orange sweater with a smiling jack-o-lantern face woven in. After much long internal debate and a half-watched marathon of "American Gladiator" re-runs last night, he felt he'd planned an even better audition piece than the cannon-con-carne. His feeling of confidence, however, dissipated when he heard clucking, and turning the next corner found a group of chickens strolling along. His heart fluttered like a moth to that feathered flame.

"Uh…Camilla?" he called out. The chickens paused; his lady-love glanced from them to Gonzo, then made soft shooing motions, assuring her friends in low clucks she'd catch up with them in a minute. She waited for him, her pure white feathers resplendent against the jaunty scarlet silk scarf tied around her neck. The way it gently tickled her back-feathers in the subtle breeze made his heart stick in his throat…oh, wait, he'd forgotten to swallow the dried chili banana he'd been chewing.

Camilla gave him a soft cluck when he at last stood before her on the sidewalk, dried yellow leaves blowing past their feet. Gonzo noticed the chicken had recently enjoyed a pedicure. "Wow, cute little gems; I like!" he offered; she ducked her head demurely, but said nothing. Gathering up his courage, Gonzo blazed ahead: "So, uh, did you hear I'm trying out for a TV show tomorrow?"

"Bawwwwk?" Camilla wondered, cocking her head sideways at him.

"Er…well, I don't know if it'll preclude the theatre gig or not yet. But it's perfect for me! It's a daredevil reality show competition!" Gonzo was dismayed to see the bright look in her eyes fade. "It's very prestigious! A national cable channel, Camilla! Just imagine the kind of fan following I might get with that! This could really be the big time!"

The chicken placed a gentle wing upon his hand, silencing him. She gave him a sweetly tolerant look…but he saw no spark of passion. "Bukawk," she told him, patted his hand, and turned to go.

"But –but –wait! Sweetie, don't you want to come help me out? Or –or watch me audition, at least?" Gonzo pleaded.

Camilla gave him a sigh, clucked again, and gestured the way her friends had gone. They hadn't walked very far, obviously curious about the outcome of this meeting. "Oh," Gonzo murmured. "Okay…sure…I understand. I'll, uh…I'll let you know if I make it onto the show, and maybe…maybe you can watch it with your girlfriends, and vote for me every week?"

Camilla considered it, nodded, clucked, and with a small wave of one delicate wingtip, hurried to catch up with the others. Gonzo watched the group of them hurry on, sneaking looks back at him, occasionally breaking into loud cackles and coos. Sighing, his shoulders drooping, he trudged on toward the theatre, all jauntiness gone from his step.

Why didn't she want to come see me? Does the whole idea bore her? Maybe…maybe I'm not being daring enough! Hey, she didn't even ask what my act was! Growing worried, he tried to convince himself that her attitude would change once she saw him in action again, but the way she bounced along at a fast trot, moving steadily away from him without once looking back, quickly melted his resolve into a small, grey puddle of woe.

He continued in a funk until he reached the front steps of the Muppet Theatre…at least, he thought it was the right steps, but he didn't recall ever seeing a street peddler there before. He craned his neck to read the theatre's sign before he realized the young woman in multicolored, fluttering silk scarves and large gold bangles and earrings was in fact the Newsman's girlfriend. Pausing, he listened in while she advised a girl who wore too much makeup, over a table of spread, colorful cards.

"Waiting tables will put food on yours, but no, it's not going to help with your acting career," Gina told the girl. She tapped a card which depicted a man made out of vegetables sowing seeds in a garden of pumpkins. "This means you need to focus on perfecting your art by planting yourself somewhere; once you've done that, your work will grow and you'll reap the full harvest in due time."

"Like, does that mean I should go work at the vegan co-op?" the girl asked, confused.

Gonzo was fairly sure he saw Gina bite back a smile. "No, but school would be a good step. Acting classes. And then plant yourself in a theatre." She swept the cards into the deck, and held out a palm. "That'll be ten dollars."

"Yeah, okay…thanks," the girl said, paid the fee, and walked off apparently still mulling over the garden analogy.

"Too bad she's not Chauncey Gardener," Gonzo commented.

Gina laughed, making him smile. "I love that book! Hi, Gonzo. How're you doing?"

"Ah…I've had better lives," he sighed. He looked curiously at her Tarot deck while she shuffled it. "Does that stuff really work?"

"Am I a Gypsy or what?" Gina returned. She leaned on the table, studying his drooping nose. "Would you like a reading?"

"Um, I don't think I have ten bucks…"

"Gratis, for the man who knows who Chance the Gardener is. Tell you what, why don't we make it a full spread, not just the three-card draw?"

Gonzo met those bright eyes a moment, and gave in. "Sure, okay."

"Here. Let's pick a significator card for you…the one which will represent you, right at this moment." Gina fanned the cards out face-up, looking carefully through them, then gave Gonzo a startled look when he pulled out one showing a clown juggling a number of symbols over his head, smiling as he danced toward the edge of a precipice. "The Fool? Okay…actually, that's a good choice…he's all about creative drive and wild dreams without pride or ego; risk-taking, innocent…"

"Uh, I'm not much of an innocent."

Gina regarded him with sharp eyes a moment. "You are, though," she said, "more than you think. All right, so that's you." She laid the card dead center in the table. "Now, shuffle these," she said, placing the rest of the deck in his hand. Gonzo did so expertly, the fresh cards making a satisfying burrrr-thwack with each feathering of them… Feathering. Yeah, great, rub it in, he thought, sighing.

Gina frowned lightly. "So what's on your mind? This isn't about Rizzo's garbage-recycling business failing, is it?" The rat had tried to convince everyone to invest in the dubious venture a month back, but when no one wanted to help him pore through tons of trash Rizzo had thrown some snappy words at all the Muppets, but especially at Gonzo. Newsie had reported it as an example of the difficulties faced by environmental entrepreneurs, though Gina doubted the rat's tree-hugging credentials.

"No…it's…I guess you could say it's a sickness of the heart," Gonzo muttered.

"Oh," Gina said quietly. "Gonzo, I'm sorry. Camilla still isn't talking to you?"

"Oh, sure, she talks to me…we even go out still sometimes…but all we do is talk, if you catch my drift."

"Ah." Gina wasn't sure what to say, what comfort to offer. She indicated the cards still in his hands. "All right, think about what you most want a minute…then when you feel ready, cut the deck."

Gonzo tried to quiet himself inside. Camilla, Camilla, we were so perfect…why have you turned away from me? he thought. One of the cards suddenly felt right, and he slipped his fingers into the deck there, bringing it to the top. Gina gently took the cards back, and flipped the top one over, covering the Fool card. "This card represents the matter at hand," she told Gonzo. "And it's reversed. That's odd…" The card showed three phantoms in traditional hooded shrouds smiling as they twined together, each holding aloft a goblet. "Normally, this is a good card; celebrations, friends, positive outcomes…but reversed, it means you're having a difficulty with a relationship. A break of friendship."

"Wow," Gonzo said. "I guess they can be accurate sometimes, huh?"

Gina turned over the next card, laying it across the reversed three of ghosts. "This is what's influencing you right now…why you're doing this reading."

"Because you offered it?"

"Not quite. See how there are two bats hovering over the blindfolded angel? This means you're searching for some kind of compromise, a way of rebalancing your life…between your desire for love and your need to perform?" Gina asked, and Gonzo's eyes widened. Seeing his surprise, Gina smiled wryly, and continued to the next card, placing it above the pile of three cards in the center. "This represents your hopes and goals. Oh…now that doesn't surprise me at all! The Magician. A major card."

"I haven't really thought about stage magic as a career," Gonzo mused, looking at the tuxedoed magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, while a cat, a bat, a jack-o-lantern and a ghost looked on happily. Numerous infinity symbols snaked around the card. "You think I should ask Mumford for some tips?"

"Gawd no," Gina growled. She tapped the card. "Hopes and goals. Creative drive leading to stupendous projects; infinite energy and ambition to push yourself over the top, always learning as you go, always getting better at your art. Tell me that's not you!"

Gonzo tilted his head to one side, silent. Gina placed the next card just behind the center pile. "This is your recent past, things you've gone through which are fresh in your mind." A group of five ghosts looked worriedly down at a spilled bucket while the pumpkin-headed man who'd dropped it seemed unhappily puzzled as to what to do. One full bucket sat untouched behind him. "No surprises there: you've lost something very dear to you…but you should realize all is not lost; you still have something left from that relationship." Gonzo blinked. He'd never put much stock in this stuff, but he didn't think Gina would lie to him. Seeing he wasn't going to comment, she turned over the next card, placing it lower than the center pile. "This is the root of the problem. Another reverse, hmm…" A bunch of short reddish imps raucously warred with long staves under a full moon. "Well, normally this isn't as bad as it looks; it says that sometimes, when your creative energy feels stagnated, you should just stir things up. But reversed…not so good. It means stagnation itself; complacency, which causes a lot of relationships to break up, believe me." At Gonzo's worried glance, she laughed. "No, not me and Newsie! He's wonderful. But in your case…"

"I understand," Gonzo nodded. Just as he'd thought: Camilla had become bored with him! He must not be daring and inventive enough anymore…

Gina placed another card in front of the center pile, so now a card showed in each cardinal point around the middle. A giant hand emerging from a cloud grasped an imp by its tail, while the imp scattered a handful of oak leaves into the sky. "This is what's in your immediate future, and that's good! Are you planning some new project?"

"Yes – I'm auditioning tomorrow for a new TV show!" Gonzo felt a flicker of hope.

"Well, this card is all about new beginnings, especially creative endeavors. So this only confirms your immediate plans."

"So I'll win the audition?"

"Probably," Gina grinned, seeing his eyes alight. "Wait, though. We're not done." She started a line going up off to the right side of the compass-rose of cards. "This card represents your attitude toward the problem. Hah…more imps! I'm not surprised; the whole suit is about creative force and restless energy, and that's you to a T. The eight of imps…" The little monsters flew in a frenzy all through a night sky, looking confused, some holding Cupid-like arrows. "You're moving fast and determinedly, but you might be overlooking something in all your haste. Your mind is all over the place."

"Um." Gonzo frowned, though if he had to examine himself, he had felt a little scatterbrained lately. Just this morning, he'd actually poured milk in his cereal instead of prune juice.

"This shows how your friends feel about your problem," Gina continued, placing another card above the last one. A bunch of ghosts seemed to be mourning a hooded figure as it climbed a hill, heading away from them all. "You may think your new plan will lead you to bigger and better things – and it might – but the other Muppets may feel you're abandoning them. Tread carefully."

"Geez," Gonzo muttered. Would his friends really think he was following the wrong path? How could they? Heck, everyone knew he'd always dreamt of stardom, fame and cool scars!

A third card went up the side. "Goodness. That's the third major arcana card…Gonzo, you really must have some magnificent dreams," Gina said, flashing a smile at him. He shrugged, and she explained the meaning of the card. "The Chariot. See how the driver is zooming along in the dark, with all those hazards close by?" A pumpkin-headed man grinned at the wheel of an old-fashioned hearse with Egyptian symbols painted upon it; a frightened black cat crouched close by the driver, while miles of spiked fencing hemmed in the car. "This is for the hopes and fears you don't talk about, and the Chariot represents great drive and self-discipline, but also the potential to crash and burn if your control ever slips." She gazed at Gonzo seriously. "You worry about failing, even as you push boldly onward."

"Well," Gonzo began, but fell silent. He didn't know what to say to that. He swallowed with a dry throat.

"Now the last one. It shows the outcome of your current path as outlined by all the other cards here, if you keep going as you are now, with your current plans," Gina said softly, and turned over the next card, setting it at the top of the line of four. It certainly didn't seem hopeful: a woman had eight bats swooping around her, each of them carrying a length of cloth; the woman was blindfolded and wrapped like a mummy, but it was hard to tell if the bats were trapping or freeing her. "Oh, Gonzo," Gina sighed.

"I take it that's not joy and celebration."

"Restriction, imprisonment, indecision…no. Not good at all." Gina studied the entire spread, lifting each of the center cards to view the ones beneath as well. "Okay…taken as a whole, here's what I see. You're still hurting from your breakup with Camilla, and you feel you've been stuck in the same place creatively too long, and you're throwing yourself head-on into a new act, in hopes of reaching bigger, better things in your art…but there are a number of cards here which talk about the need for caution, for reconsidering. You're launching into this new project because you think it will impress Camilla, aren't you," she said; it wasn't a question.

"Don't you think it will?" Gonzo responded. "I mean, if she broke up with me because I was getting too ordinary…"

"It's not about what I think, it's about what the cards say," Gina argued. She gave Gonzo a steady stare, making him fidget. She tapped the table for emphasis. "Everything here comes down to this: although the same-old-same-old may have led to the breakup, you're rushing into something that might have very unpleasant results. Something that won't achieve what you want it to. Reconsider." Sighing, Gina looked at the cards a moment longer, then swept them into a pile and began reshuffling them into the deck. "Sorry, Gonzo."

"So…what do you think? You, personally?" Gonzo wondered.

Gina shrugged. "That's a pretty strong and definite warning. I'd pay attention to it, honestly. But keep in mind, that's only where your current path leads. If you change something, the results can also change." She gave him a small smile. "Look, if it was me, and Newsie was looking elsewhere, and I thought doing something new and creative would get his attention…I would absolutely do it! I can completely understand why you'd want to win Camilla back. Just…watch your step, okay?"

"Slow and careful," Gonzo nodded. "Got it. Thanks, Gina."

"Anytime. Love the threads, by the way. You didn't borrow the coat from Newsie, did you?"

Gonzo blinked down at his tasteful autumn-hued plaid. "Uh, no offense, but he's usually not this stylish…"

Gina laughed, and with a grin, Gonzo waved goodbye and went into the theatre, privately musing, Maybe I should hold off on the chainsaw-dance for now. Slow and careful. Maybe just use the live jellyfish instead?…

Watching him go, Gina hoped whatever the Whatever was planning, he'd be able to stop himself from hurtling into catastrophe…although she knew from repeated visits to the Muppet Theatre this was rarely the case with him. She sensed someone else standing in front of the table, composed her expression into disinterested calm, and turned around to see a purple, dreadlocked Muppet peering at her from above dark shades. "Hey, baby," Clifford said, leaning in to ask in a low voice, "uh, say. Are you a real Gypsy?"

"Yes. Did you want your cards read?" Gina offered, but the Muppet shook his head, stringy mustaches flying.

"Naw, naw, gorgeous! I just, uh…I kinda need a…" He sighed, and gave her his most hopeful smile. "Do you, uh, brew love potions by any chance?"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR. _In which the Newsman visits his auntie, but finds more questions than answers. Also, there are yipping Martians._

"Mm. News-man. News-man. Yip. Yip yip yip."

Oh, not these weirdos again, Newsie groaned inwardly, turning to see the blue-furred creature stretching up on whatever passed for its tip-toes to stare at him, then jerking away when he glowered at it. He'd completely forgotten Wednesdays were one of the two Monster-Petting Therapy days here at the Long Shadows Upon the Dial Happy Home for the Dangerously Senile; it was one of the reasons he'd chosen Thursday as his regular visiting day, so he wouldn't have to deal with the bizarre creatures. It stared wide-eyed at him; he'd yet to see them blink. He didn't even think they had eyelids. Squiggly antennae bobbled at him curiously. "Mm. Go to Eth-el? Eth-el? Yip?"

"Yes," he growled, and the monster immediately skidded and slid around the corner. Sighing, squaring his shoulders against the nuisance of it all, the Newsman followed the monster through the halls, a little bewildered when it took a different direction than he was accustomed to. He had to almost sprint up a set of stairs to keep the thing in sight. Well, at least this isn't one of the big ones, he told himself. Some of the residents had apparently been assigned eight-foot beasts as their personal monsters to pet on therapy days – "Whooof!" He smacked into something orange-furred as he rounded the next corner. Putting up a hand to steady himself, he jumped back as slavering teeth and glowering eyes jutted into his face. "Ack! Uh—uh—sorry! I didn't, er, see you there…"

"How can you see anything through those coke-bottles?" the monster cackled, shoved him aside with one clawed paw, and ceremoniously escorted a doddering old gent along the corridor. "C'mon, Bernie. Let's go eat some squirrels."

Newsie shuddered, and looked down the now-vacant hall. No sign anywhere of the odd creature who'd been guiding him. Hesitantly he walked along, glancing at the mostly-closed doors of residents' rooms. Mad giggling came from beyond one; a sudden crash in another room was followed by a blue-scrub-clad nurse hurrying in, shutting the door behind her. Unnerved, Newsie quieted his footsteps, wondering if perhaps he should just come back on a different day. Suddenly a door opened just as he passed it, startling him. "Hey! Yeah, you!" the wizened old codger standing in the doorway with a chrome-painted walker pointed an accusing finger at Newsie.

"Er…me?"

"You think I don't know? You think I don't see you stealing my pretzels? Oh no! I see it! You only think my eyes are closed!" the old man yelled, advancing upon the befuddled newscaster.

"I haven't taken your pretzels!" Newsie argued. "I don't even know you!"

"Oh, I know you," the old man sneered, nodding. Newsie backed away, wondering how to get past the walker now blocking the hallway, or whether he ought to simply go back. "See you every night on the news! Acting so above it all! But I know…I know!"

"Excuse me," Newsie gulped, darting to one side. He squeezed past the walker, but a wrinkled claw of a hand grabbed his sleeve. "Ack! Sir, please let go!"

"Not 'til you give me back my pretzels!" The old man's eyes blazed, and his white hair frothed around his spotted head like stormclouds gathering. "You're in league with them!"

Exasperated and not a little creeped out, Newsie tugged, but the fingers locked in his coat-sleeve wouldn't unhook. "Sir, I have no idea who stole your pretzels, but I give you my word as a journalist, it was not me!"

"Then who was it? Huh? Who?"

Desperate, Newsie tried a different tack. "I don't know, but I'll look into it! That sounds like…like a story of imminent importance to the public!"

Suddenly content, the old man released him. "Oh, good," he murmured, turned around, and wobbled back into his own room.

When the door shut, Newsie let out a breath, feeling his heart still thumping hard. He looked toward the end of the hall again –"Aaagh!" The blue-furred thing with googly eyes and long lips wobbled backwards, startled by his reaction to finding it abruptly in front of him again. "Don't do that!" Newsie gasped at it.

"News-man lost. Looost. Yip-yip. Lost. Yip yip yip yip yip uh-huh."

"I wouldn't be if you wouldn't run so far ahead," Newsie complained.

The thing bobbed its head down, then up, then down again, continuing to stare right at him. He hated that. "Ru-un?" it asked, puzzled.

"Never mind," Newsie sighed. "Just take me to my aunt."

He stayed close behind it this time, jogging, until it swung through an open door. Its twin, the pink thing, was bouncing its head up and down while loud static squealed from an old clock-radio. "Mu-sic! Music! Yip!" it called out.

Excited, the blue monster joined it, and they shuffled and hopped and waggled their antennae, apparently overjoyed by the white noise. Irritated, Newsie shut the radio off, and they both stared at him. "I can't hear anything over that noise!" he barked at them, and turned to greet his aunt, trying to compose himself better. "Uh…Aunt Ethel? It's me, Aloysius…"

"Needs hear-ing aid," a low, monotone voice came from behind him, followed by amused snorts and yips.

The Newsman ignored them. His aunt, pale and tiny, gave him a vacant smile. She reclined on her bed, the top half of the mattress tilted up, wearing a blue dress with white polka-dots; it spread like a welcoming flag across the neatly made red blanket, bringing vaguely-recalled childhood memories of Victory gardens and stars in windows back to Newsie. He reached carefully for her hand; she took it without hesitation, but he couldn't tell if any recognition sparked in her eyes. "How are you today, Auntie?" he asked.

"Oh, very well, thank you," she replied, but the way she continued to sit and beam at him told him she had little idea of where or when she was.

"Aunt Ethel, I came to talk to you about our family," Newsie said, deciding launching right into the purpose of his visit might be best. "About the Bly—hey!" He whirled angrily; the monster who'd been poking a skinny hand into his jacket pocket leaped back, yipping in protest. "Stay out of my pockets!" Newsie snapped, then returned his gaze to his aunt. "About the Blyers. Can you tell me more about them?" Scolding himself, reminding himself open-ended questions tended to bring in only vague answers, he corrected, "Er…would you tell me what you remember about your family, when you were growing up?"

"Oh, yes," Ethel said, her wrinkled face brightening. "We had a lovely farm, until the Muppabean Weevil came along in '29…"

Newsie took out his notepad, but fumbled for his pencil stub. Looking around, he saw it being passed back and forth by the monsters, who examined it as though it were an alien artifact. "Stick? Yip. Stick. Yip yip yip…uh-uh. Not stick. Nope. Nopenopenopenope."

The pink one took the pencil, popping it into a wide round mouth. "Hey!" Newsie said, startled and angry.

"Mmf. Car-rot?" the pink one wondered. Newsie grabbed its head; it fought wildly, but he managed to pry open its snap-trap mouth and retrieve the not-yet-swallowed pencil.

"Stop taking my things! And stay out of my pockets!" Newsie snapped.

The creatures looked at one another, shrugging. "Not car-rot."

"Nope. Nopenopenope."

Disgusted, Newsie wiped off the pencil with his handkerchief, then hastily began jotting down his aunt's words as she reminisced, oblivious to the monsters. "Even with the weevils, we might have brought in a crop that year, but the snow fell early, and too many beans froze in the fields…oh, it was a disaster. We had to move to a tiny shack. Flora and I shared a bunk, and Wilfred had the top bunk, and Ma and Pa put down a bedroll in the main room by the fire." She paused, eyes gazing off at nothing the Newsman could see. He waited, wondering if he ought to prompt her again, but then she continued, "That was a little crowded, you can imagine! But things improved after Wilfred got a job in town…"

"Which town?" Newsie asked, pencil poised.

"Cheddarbrethe Hollow, of course," Ethel responded, puzzled. "I thought you said you were the county registrar?"

"Uh, no. I'm your nephew, Aloysius."

"Oh, how nice," she nodded pleasantly at him. "I have a nephew by that same name!"

"Okay," Newsie sighed. "Tell me more about Wilfred. What did he do in town?"

One of the creatures poked Newsie in the side, skittering back when he jerked around to glare at it. "Ched-dar?" it asked, holding out a pink eraser.

Newsie tried to snatch the eraser from the thing's tiny claw, but it quickly tossed the item to its companion, which promptly popped it into its mouth and chewed, furry lips masticating sideways like a cow. "Mmmm! Ched-dar! Yip yip yip! Ched-dar!"

"Yip yip yipyipyipyipyip uh-huh!"

Irritated, Newsie looked back at Ethel. "Oh, well, Wilfie started as an apprentice curd-fluffer at the plant, but he worked his way up. By the time he retired, he was second assistant hole-puncher in the Swiss cheese department!" She smiled sweetly. "Such a good work ethic Wilfie had…he always made Pa proud."

"He had a son, didn't he?" Newsie asked, and she nodded.

"That would be Chester. Chester didn't go into the cheese business, though…Wilfie never did understand that. Such a bright boy, you'd think he would've jumped at the chance to become a professional curdler like his daddy…" Ethel shook her head, smiling wistfully. "He's a good boy, though." She perked. "Would you like to see some pictures, Mr…what did you say your name was? I'm so sorry, my memory's not what it used to be…"

Newsie sighed again. "Just call me Newsman, if that's easier."

"Oh! You're a reporter? Well why didn't you say so! Oh! Will this be in the Cheddarbrethe Hollow Clarion? Oh, how delightful! Won't Pa be proud to see our name in the paper!" Ethel clapped her hands, and suddenly leapt up, throwing open the lid to a sturdy, rough-hewn oak hope chest at the foot of the bed. Nervously the yipping creatures darted around her while she rummaged.

"Yip yip! Sit! Eth-el sit! Bad! Yip yip yip!" one scolded, but she shoved it away impatiently. Newsie hurried to grab her wavering shoulder. The pink thing tried to insinuate itself between him and his aunt, bobble-wires and huge eyes suddenly pressed against his nose. "No touch! Nopenopenope! Eth-el sit!"

"Get away!" Newsie snarled, elbowing the monster. It suddenly reared up, staring down at him – he hadn't realized they could make themselves taller – and yipping like a one-note watchdog. Its partner crowded him from behind, and though he flailed at them, the two pushed him away from Ethel. Fortunately she found what she wanted and plopped tiredly on the end of the bed.

"Oh…oh, my, these bones are so weak for some reason lately…I must not be eating enough cheese," she murmured. Shoving his way past the monsters, Newsie took her hands in his, checking her over, worried.

"Are you all right?" he asked, while the monsters anxiously darted and hovered, mumbling to themselves.

Ethel beamed at him. "My, you're very considerate! How nice to see the post office hiring good-mannered young men these days! You know, was a time that postmaster was such a grouch…always came in with dirt on his fur, and snarled at anyone trying to buy stamps…"

"Er…uh…is that a photo album?" Newsie asked, trying to get the conversation back on some kind of track. He was positive he'd never seen the huge, fabric-bound book before.

"Isn't it darling? Joe helped me make it." She smiled at Newsie. "He'll be home from work soon! Would you like to have some tea and cookies with us? Joe loves tea and cookies after a hard day at the accounting firm."

"Uh…sounds very nice," Newsie managed, then tapped the book forgotten in her lap. "Can you show me a picture of Chester?"

"Chester…hmm, I don't know if I have any photos of him in this book. Let's see…" She began flipping the oversized pages; numerous faded black-and-white photos flew by. "Oh, look! There's Flora at the fall dance! Didn't she look lovely?"

Newsie felt strange viewing a picture of a much younger version of his mother posing with a bouquet of wild grasses and sunflowers, scowling deeply at the camera. Ethel continued on. "And here's the cheese factory…there's Wilfie standing in front of the curd vat…"

Newsie peered curiously at the stern-seeming, stout Muppet with overalls and a large rounded nose, his dark hair bowl-cut over deeply lined eyes. It occurred to him that his uncle might have still been alive when Newsie was growing up. He'd never known the man existed until a couple of months ago, and any chance to even meet his uncle was likely now lost. "Unfortunately, he got Pa's nose, instead of Ma's like Flora and me," Ethel sighed. "Poor homely soul. At least Willie didn't seem to mind. She told me once she loved how he always came home smelling like Muenster."

"He smelled like a monster?"

"Oh, you silly! Like Muenster, the cheese. What kind of dairy farmer are you, not knowing your cheeses?"

"Uh…right. Willie…his wife?"

"That's right. Wilhelmina. Sweet little thing she was…the green fur flu took her in '67. Such a shame." Ethel paused at a page showing the dour-faced, cheese-making man standing with one arm around a tiny Muppet woman with large round ears sticking straight out, and an almost nonexistent chin. Her eyes, however, looked kind, with doe-like lids giving her whole face a demure expression. The woman cradled an infant in her arms, bundled up so tightly all Newsie could see of its features was the large round nose sticking out of the blanket. "Didn't they make a lovely family?" She lingered a moment more, then flipped the page. Newsie started at the candid shot of himself, perhaps age two, running across a lawn bawling, trying to hold up a diaper which seemed to be coming untied. "Oh, that's my nephew Aloysius! Such a doll!"

"Er," Newsie stammered, and reached over to turn the page back. "Uh…tell me more about your brother's family. You said Chester didn't go into the cheese business. What does he do for a living?"

"Chester? Oh, well, I'm sure you know him. He's famous now! Such a good boy; I always knew he'd be in show business, the way he used to put on funny skits for the cows…"

"Show business?" Newsie was positive he'd never heard of a Chester Blyer acting in anything. Then again, he rarely bothered with entertainment fluff, preferring hard news stories. He was willing to make an exception to that rule for Kermit or Miss Piggy, naturally, or the other Muppets, but typically he was smugly pleased when he didn't know a single name of any of the reality-TV psuedo-celebrities being bantered about around the water-cooler at KRAK. Suddenly a pink furry head shoved between him and the photo album.

"Eth-el. Lunch. Yip yip. Lunch. Brrrrrrring! Lunch."

Newsie was on the verge of really going after the intrusive monster when a loud bell rang, echoing through the halls of the asylum. He heard doors opening, and patients shuffled and mumbled along the hall. A nurse entered the room. "Hello, Ethel! Time for num-nums! We have tapioca today!"

"Ooh, I love tapioca," Ethel said, smiling up at the woman in bright floral scrubs. She looked at Newsie. "Will you be joining us, Mr Donaldson?"

Taken aback, Newsie fumbled for a response. The nurse gave him a thin smile. "I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time, sir. We don't allow patients to have visitors during lunch; it tends to agitate them too much."

"But – but I wasn't done asking –"

"The monsters will see you out," the nurse stated firmly, helping his aunt into a wheelchair and swiftly taking her out of the room. The pink thing crowded him, its head jerking from side to side to peer around his nose. Irritated, he pushed it away from his face.

"Just a minute," he growled. "At least let me put her book away." He glared at both of them, wary of them shuffling around with odd ripples of their footless bodies, and with a grunt raised the heavy lid of the hope chest. Good grief, she must be strong; this thing weighs ten pounds! He carefully lowered the photo album into the chest, but stopped when he saw another album, bound in plain blue vinyl, beneath it. He exchanged the albums, opening the blue one, amazed to find the first few pages contained nothing but newspaper clippings of himself. MUPPET NEWSMAN BURSTS ONTO CITY NEWS SCENE! the first one announced, accompanied by a grainy photo of the exact instant he had been blown up by Crazy Harry on the steps of the Stock Exchange building during an on-the-spot report about trading exploding that day. Ergh…I didn't know anyone had shot that! he thought, wincing. Another was a front-page review of the Muppet Show which focused on Kermit, Piggy, and Gonzo's oatmeal-snorkeling-while-bagpipe-playing act. Far into the article, on a third clipping which had been buried on page eighteen, a single mention had been outlined in dark marker: "Also notable: the recurring comedy act of one Muppet trying to present absurd 'news' stories but falling victim to the report every time. Don't miss the falling cow bit!"

Embarrassed, Newsie flipped the page. The blue monster nudged him. "Go. Now. Go now. Yip yip yip. Gooooooo!"

"Go. Go go. Yip yip yip yip uh-huh!"

"Knock it off!" Newsie said, trying to push them away as they crowded him uncomfortably. The pink thing grabbed the scrapbook in its wide mouth, lurching away with it. "Hey! Give that back!"

"Nooope. Nope nope nope. Yip."

He yanked it out of the clamped furry lips only by bracing his heels and pulling with all his strength; the monster let go at the last instant, sending Newsie sprawling on his rear. "Go. News-man go. Yip yip yip."

"Yiiiiiip yip yipyipyipyip go! uh-huh," the other one chimed in, its movements growing even more aggressive, the two of them circling him. He wasn't sure they wouldn't bite him. Granted, he didn't see any teeth, but if they both latched on and pulled in opposite directions… He snatched up the scrapbook, fallen on the floor in his tumble, and his eye suddenly noted a different picture, someone definitely not him, but dressed in the same brown plaid sports coat he had favored for so long. Backing toward the door, Newsie glanced between the advancing creatures and the clipping pasted on the page: 'SWIFT WITS' CAPTIVATES AFTERNOON AUDIENCE. The publicity photo depicted a Muppet who clearly hosted the show in question, standing with his back to a large title logo. The host had a large round nose, round ears sticking out from his head, a shock of dark sleek hair, and bright, doe-lidded eyes.

"Make go," the pink thing muttered, and its partner agreed with an ominous yip. They closed in on the Newsman, their voices monotonous, threatening: "Yip, yip, yip yip yip yipyipyipyip…"

Hugging the album to his chest, Newsie fled, stumbling down the corridor. Mr You-stole-my-pretzels lurched into his path; Newsie put out one hand and vaulted the walker, albeit ungracefully, landing hard but picking himself up and pounding around the corner and down the stairs. He didn't slow until he'd reached the parking lot. Looking back, he saw the twin monsters staring at him from the flowerbed at the side of the asylum, but they didn't seem inclined to pursue him past the front gate. Relieved, he flashed his visitor's badge at the guard and was allowed out.

I have to remember NOT to be here when they are, he thought, panting. Why they even allow those freaks on the grounds is beyond all reason! How can encouraging monsters on the premises be GOOD for the inmates? Dear sainted Murrow…wait. Why ARE they even here? It's supposed to be "petting therapy," but I have yet to see anyone petting them…not that any of them would allow that, I bet. Wonder if any of the inmates have gone missing on monster days? He walked along the tree-lined drive, musing, his heart slowing gradually. He checked his watch, and saw he had plenty of time to catch the train back to the city and meet Rhonda; his reports producer had reluctantly agreed to go with him to ConEd to try and track down the workers who'd complained of strange things sighted belowground. In the meantime… Newsie parked himself on a low bench, polished his glasses, and reopened the scrapbook.

It made him feel odd to know that his aunt, who didn't even recognize him now, had saved all these clippings of him, all these chronicles, flattering or not (mostly not) of his career. He'd never known. His mother had certainly never had a kind word about his choice of livelihood; she had never even mentioned him appearing in a review. Not once. But Aunt Ethel… Swallowing dryly, Newsie forced himself to go past his clippings to the page with the unfamiliar face. He read through the article. The fluff piece praised "the witty banter, the charming veteran monster Carl, and above all, the mercifully short length of the program." He tried to dredge up any memory of the show, but failed; game shows simply held no interest for him. After all, trivia was not news. He looked at the picture closely. That nose…didn't it resemble his uncle's? Weren't those ears the same as his late aunt Wilhelmina's? Could this Muppet be…?

Then he saw the host's name, in tiny print under the photo: "'Swift Wits' features Carl the Big Mean Bunny, darling of afternoon television; also the current host, Snookie Blyer."

Blyer! His heart skittered. Eagerly, Newsie skimmed through a dozen more photos and articles, each focusing on an enormous monster with what looked like costume bunny ears (he suddenly had a disturbing vision of this thing crashing one of Hef's parties – "Hello! Ahhh nom nom nom! Thank you!"), but each at least mentioning the host in passing. The last used page in the scrapbook had one final photo, this one in color, of the game show host standing off by himself, with a distant look on his face, while other Muppets with either large round or large pointed noses, all yellow-felted, laughed and drank and mingled convivially around a laden picnic table. This one hadn't been pasted in; Newsie carefully detached the brads holding it in place and flipped it over. Written in Aunt Ethel's graceful hand on the back were the words, "Blyer Family Reunion, 1990. Chester's last visit."

Newsie turned the photo over again, studying the image with deeply mixed emotions. This guy Snookie is Chester? My cousin? A family reunion? Why wasn't I invited? Am I not…not considered family? He swallowed down the hurt, trying to refocus. His last visit? And there aren't any more articles…so where's he been for the past twenty-one years? Did he quit show business? Was he fired? At least now he had a face to put with the name, and a possible lead. Tonight, he'd start research into the show, and find out when it was canceled, and what network it ran on. Perhaps an inquiry to that station could help him track down the missing Blyer. It counted as progress, anyway. He'd copy all the articles about this Snookie guy and return the scrapbook to his aunt the next time he visited. Telling himself this was a good discovery, the Newsman stood and tucked the scrapbook under his arm, walking unhurriedly toward the entrance to the asylum's spacious outer grounds, questions tumbling through his head as he went.

The yipyips watched him go. The pink one turned to the blue one. "Mn. Bad. Yip. Bad man."

"Mm," the other bobbed its head in agreement. "Should tell. Bad. Mm. Yip yip yip."

"Yip yip," the first one added. Together they half-bounced, half-slid across the neatly trimmed grass to a storm drain. Exchanging another look, they both shook themselves rapidly from side to side, humming a low note, and melted like laundry soap down the drain opening.

"Such odd boys," Ethel said, staring at the vanishing monsters from her table in the garden. She blinked up at her nurse, and automatically accepted the spoonful of tapioca being offered her. Around the mouthful, she commented, "I can never recall whose boys they are. Must be Homer's…he was a black sheep, my cousin Homer, you know." The nurse nodded patiently, scooping another spoonful into the old lady's mouth, dabbing her with a napkin. "Yes, I think they must be Homer's. He moved to Minnesota, of all places, swore off cheese, and started rooting for the Vikings! Can you imagine?" She shook her head, and gummed another spoonful with a smile. "Mmm. The creamed corn's tasty today, isn't it?"


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE. _In which Lew Zealand wins a fish; Fozzie invites everyone to a party; and Big Mean Carl debates barbecue ingredients with Beautiful Day Monster._

The lights swirled wildly, the music flubbered to a wet-sounding crescendo of tubas and gargling octopi, and Snookie yelled out the intro: "Want a tremulous trout? How about a splendiferous salmon, or a charming char? These and more could be yours if you're picked to play – You Win a Fish!"

The audience slapped their fins, tentacles, and tails loudly against their benches or each other as the greenish studio lights brightened and the smiling, jovial host paddled the inflatable boat into the center of the gigantic holding tank. Rumor held the network had purchased the eleventy-thousand-gallon tank from a defunct Octo-World sea life park, but Snookie was positive he'd never seen any branch of Octo-World which had anything comparable to this. At least he didn't have to get wet. He tossed his tiny anchor overboard with a splash to keep himself roughly in the center of the tank and waved to the audience filling the half-submerged bleachers on three sides. "Hey! Are you ready to play?"

The squid, octopi, sharks, and unidentifiable deep-water predators all gurbled enthusiastically at him. "All right then! Let's bring out our current champion! With a five-week winning streak totaling three hundred and twenty-two fish," he paused a moment for the cheering and applause, "heeeeeere's Goompah Gobrobbler!" As the portly Great White shark lumbered into the tank, doing fin-pumps for his cheering fans and showing every one of his five hundred reticulated teeth, Snookie continued, not even needing his waterproofed cue card to recite the shark's accomplishments after five weeks of cringing away from him every workday: "As you all know, Goompah is a six-year-old resident of the Great Barrier Reef who arrived at our studio by hitching a lift on the back of a nuclear submarine – with his teeth!" Too bad they didn't assume he was another sub and fire a warning torpedo at him, Snookie thought. "He's proven himself quite the fish professor around here, he weighs four hundred and twenty-two pounds soaking wet" (audience laughter) "and ladies, he's single! Now, let's meet our challenger today!" Snookie glanced at the cue card, his brows briefly creasing as he realized the contender wasn't another shark, polar bear, alligator, or Marianas Trench Squid. "O-kay! Well, here's a surprise! Our contestant today is a Muppet! He has a degree in plumbing technology from Cal State, he likes peanut butter and caviar – together, and he says he's never met a fish he didn't like! Let's give it up for…Lew Zealand!"

"Ooookaaay! Wuh-huh-huh! Hi, Snookie! Wow, this is exciting!" A rounded man with wide fat bobble-eyes and a fluted collar swam out into the tank. He waved at the crowd while treading water. "Hi, everybody!"

Goompah the shark snarled, but Snookie held up a hand. "Hey, now! No eating until the game is over or you forfeit all your winnings so far! Heh heh!" Deeply relieved when the shark decided to obey the rules, Snookie checked to make sure Lew was headed for his side of the tank while the shark cruised on the opposite side. "Everybody in place? Fan-tastic! Let's play!"

The audience hushed. The strobes sparkled in sequence over the water, and the computer-controlled lights all swung down and inward at once to focus on Snookie, Goompah, and Lew, the rest of the tank dark. "All right players, your first question, for one brown trout minnow, is: name the Mesopotamian fish god whose followers sometimes threw sacrifices into the sea!"

Both players shook their cuttlefish; both cuttlefish pulsed vibrant electric blue, but Lew's was a split second quicker, and Snookie called on him. "Well, that's an easy one! Dagon!"

"Correct! Next question, for one farm-raised catfish: what prehistoric fish was confirmed not extinct in the 1930s?"

Again, Lew beat Goompah to the buzzer…so to speak; the cuttlefish didn't actually buzz. Snookie had always felt the show would make more sense if they did. Well…as much sense as something this bizarre could make, at least. "Ah, that would be the coelacanth, Snookie!"

"Correct again!" Snookie proclaimed, as the scoring basket above Lew's head now had two flopping fish dripping down on the delighted contestant. Goompah shook his cuttlefish, which turned three different shades in protest.

"Hey, I don't think my buzzer is working!" the shark growled. A technician in a wetsuit hurriedly swam over and pulled the tentacles, squeezed its eyeballs, tickled its beak, and finally handed it back to the shark.

"Well, the tech guys say it's working fine, Goompah, so why don't we continue the game?" Snookie asked, growing a little nervous. "The third question, for one fat blowfish: what river is the black-skirt tetra found in?"

Determinedly the shark slammed his cuttlefish into the wall of the tank, making it fluoresce brighter than Lew's. Snookie looked at him expectantly. "The Chattahoochee!" the shark shouted.

"Uh – no! Lew, do you have the answer?" Snookie asked, wincing as the shark's beady black eyes widened in disbelief.

Lew laughed. "Huh-huh! That's a trick question, Snookie! All tetras come from the Amazon or one of its branch rivers!"

"Correct! So as we head to the break, that's three fish for challenger Lew Zealand, and one strike for reigning champion Goompah Gobrobbler! Stay with us for this unexpected heat on You Win a Fish!" The cameras went to commercial standby, and Snookie nervously sleeked his hair down with one hand. Half the audience was rooting loudly for the shark; the other half booed Lew, but the clueless Muppet only smiled and waved at them. Oh, frog. What is this guy doing? Doesn't he know after the first bite the blood in the water will draw every shark in the northern Atlantic? He wished he could say something to Zealand, but interfering with either of the players was grounds for immediate devourment if he was caught. The scaly orange monster who directed this show snapped his finny fingers, getting Snookie's attention; commercial almost over. Snookie took a deep breath and presented his widest smile for the camera. "O-kay! So, let's find out a little more about our players! Lew, it says here that you throw fish?"

"Oh, not just any fish, Snookie! I throw boomerang fish! You see, I throw the fish away…" He produced a very smelly dead fish from inside his strange Elizabethan doublet and threw it at Snookie; the host ducked, and the fish bounced off Goompah's nose before flying back to Lew. "Heh-heh-heh! And it comes back to me!"

"Weh-heh-ellll, that certainly is an interesting hobby, Lew! Now, Goompah –"

"Oh, it's not a hobby, Snookie! I do it for a living!"

Snookie paused, dubious. "You actually make money at that?"

"Well…not so far, but—"

"So, Goompah! I understand you have a special fan in the studio today?" Snookie continued with the fluff questions, the shark's scowl an incentive to move things along.

Goompah nodded, pointing with one sharp fin at a small blue shark bobbing in the front row of the audience. "That's right, Snookie. Smitty here is a very special young shark. Y'see, Smitty was born with only one set of teeth." A low murmur of pity ran through the assembled sea creatures. Goompah nodded firmly. "He swam all the way here with his family to see me compete in person after watching me on the show! I was so inspired by his story that I'm gonna give half my winnings today to the Make-a-Fang Foundation, which helps kids like Smitty catch fat boaters and other easy-to-digest prey!"

"Ooo-kay," Snookie responded, keeping the smile frozen on his lips, though he shuddered inside. "Are you both ready to play?"

"Wuh-huh-huh! Sure!"

"Bring it."

"Let's play!" Again, a hush fell with the darkness around the ring of the tank. "Gentlemen, your next question, with a red snapper on the line: what fictional pirate named his ship after an ancient denizen of the deepwater with a hard, circular shell?"

Lew won the buzzer. "That would be Captain Nemo!"

"Correct! Next question –"

"A nautilus isn't really a fish," Goompah objected. "Is that question fair?"

Snookie glanced past the tank wall to the control booth. He saw the director nodding his orange, glistening head, gills flexing. "I'm sorry, but yes, that does fall within the range of questions allowed! Moving on, fellas: in which waters can you locate the Portuguese Man-o'War?"

Goompah slammed his cuttlefish nearly insensible to win the tossup. "Indian Ocean!"

Snookie tried to speak as quickly as possible in the hope it might take the shark longer to react: "No I'm sorry Lew do you know the correct answer?"

"Of course! Those are found mostly in the Gulf of Mexico!"

"That's right! A flat sunfish for Lew and a second strike for Goompah on that one! Uh-oh, our shark champion is dangerously close to striking out of the game! And we'll be right back." Snookie flinched when a large fin suddenly flashed in front of him and the shark reared up next to his tiny rubber boat. "Uh, heh-heh, Goompah, buddy! You know the rules say you have to stay in your corner until the game is settled!"

"I'm winning this game, you scrawny plaid appetizer. Get that?" the shark snarled.

"Hey, sharkie! Wanna see my boomerang yellow-and-black mackerel? Go get 'em, Prince Charlie!"

Snookie ducked again when a very floppy fish sailed low across the tank. The shark reached up with giant teeth, snapping once. "Heyyy! That was my mackerel!" Lew protested.

"Aaaand we're back! In case you're just tuning in, there seems to be an upset in the making –"

"You could say I'm upset, yeah!" Goompah shouted. Snookie did his best to keep smiling, laughing off the implicit threat for the camera's benefit.

"Now, now, Goompah! Let's get on with the game, shall we? Next question, for the staggering amount of one kingfish," Snookie said, going marginally slower so the lights could dim and the enormous, struggling, sail-finned trophy fish could be swung into position over the tank for everyone to see, "is…what country is depleting the Pacific shark population for a tasty soup?"

"What!" Goompah yelled. "Are you kidding me?"

Lew buzzed his cuttlefish. "That would be Japan, Snookie!"

"Right you are! And Goompah, please remember if you have the answer, you must use your buzzer to –"

"That is an insult! You're deliberately offending me! I am so degraded!" Goompah yelled, charging the rubber boat. With a shriek, Snookie jumped straight up, his shoes kicking the angry shark in the nose as those powerful jaws snapped shut right where he'd been; the boat deflated with a loud pop and hiss. "You'ff piffed off da wong fark! Come back heuh!" Goompah bellowed around the rubber now shredding all over his teeth. Snookie scrambled over the shark's slippery head, desperately diving and winding up involuntarily crowd-surfing over the yelling, roiling audience.

"Hey, Snookie! I'll throw you a fish! You catch it and it'll bring you back here!" Lew called out, tossing fish after fish at the host, although most of them were caught and eaten by the audience, and one slapped Snookie square in the nose.

Carl the Big Mean Chef stormed into the control booth. "Hey! What's goin' on here? That was a stupid question! Who writes this stuff?"

Beautiful Day Monster chortled, halfway raising a hand. Carl scowled. "Figures! Lemme guess – you've entered the cookoff too?" B.D. shrugged, grinning. "Well go get him outta there! He's my prime ingredient! Get that shark off him!"

Some growling and posturing ensued, but in the end, B.D. waded into the pool and grudgingly extricated the terrified, ragged-clothed host from the jaws of death before he could become Goompah's donation to Make-a-Fang.

***

"Hey, uh, Frog of my Heart," Fozzie began tentatively. Kermit gave him a curious look, reminding himself not to smile; Fozzie usually only wrung his hat like that when what he was about to say or do would prove unintentionally comic.

"What is it, Fozzie?"

"Um, I know you and Miss Piggy are, uh, busy and everything, but, um…well I was wondering if you could…I mean, if you're not busy…"

"Fozzie, spit it out! What is it?"

"Oh, right! Right! Uh…" The bear gulped, and asked in a shaky voice, "Could you come to my Ma's Halloween party?"

Kermit took an extra beat to allow that to sink in. "Your mother's throwing a party? When is it?" And why is Fozzie acting so nervous about it? Despite having to keep half his attention on the usual backstage pre-show chaos, Kermit was intrigued.

"It's next week. Saturday da twenty-second. At her farm." He stared so earnestly at the frog that Kermit became suspicious. "Do you…do you think you guys can come?"

"I'll check, Fozzie."

"Okay," the bear mumbled, turning to go.

"Fozzie – why is this such a worrisome thing?"

"Who said I'm worried?"

"Fozzie," Kermit said, growing impatient. He could hear Animal shouting Pen-guin! Pen-guin! somewhere below in the green room, and hesitated to even visualize what that could be all about.

Fozzie groaned all in a rush: "Kerrrmiiiit…it's just dat Ma wants me to come up dere and see Dora and I didn't think I could do it all by myself so could you please just come to da party? Pleeeeease?"

Kermit frowned. "Dora? I thought that was a kids' show."

"No, no, no, not dat Dora! Dora Bruin! She and I kinda grew up together, and…and da last time I saw her I made a total fool of myself with all dat Wormwood Soames stuff, and…and…" Desperately he grabbed Kermit's arm. "Look, Frog, can you just say yes you'll be dere?"

Kermit sighed. "Fine. As long as it doesn't interfere with location scouting, yes, I'll be there. Piggy too."

"Oh thank you Kermit! Thankyouthankyou—"

"Okay, sheesh," Kermit said, shaking free of the bear hug to go yell at the scientists inexplicably dragging a llama through the wings. "Bunsen! What have I told you guys about bringing walking rugs in here!"

Elated, Fozzie stopped the janitor as he ambled by, mop in hand. "Oh hey, hey Beauregard! Wanna come to a Halloween party? It's gonna be at my Ma's farm a week from Saturday!"

Beau blinked slowly. "Me? A party?"

"Yeah! It's gonna be great! There'll be pumpkin-picking, and apple-bobbing, and everyone can wear a costume! Whaddaya say?"

"Uh, I don't know, Fozzie," Beau mused. "I don't think I even have a pumpkin pick." He brightened. "Would an ice-pick do?" He frowned again. "But what will I use for the apples?"

"Just be there! Saturday after this one! Okay?" Fozzie hurried to a group of chickens preening atop a stack of crates, waiting for their opening number, a feather-fan dance to the tune of "Anything Goes." "Hey, you chickens! Wanna come to a party?"

"Dat's so sweet of him to toot his ma's horn," Johnny Fiama murmured respectfully. "Hey Sal. Make a note. We'll need five dozen pumpkin cannolis, Sattiday after next." He shot the ape a significant look. "Make sure it's Ma's recipe!"

"Uh, sure t'ing, Johnny," Sal agreed at once, though he immediately remembered all the other preparations for Johnny's own Halloween bash he was supposed to be coordinating already. "So dat would be anuddah five dozen? 'Cause you already ordered dat many for your party on da same night…"

"Whaddayou now, an accountant? Eh, a dozen here, half a dozen dere, who cares? Commie see, commie saw, like dey say, ya know? Just make it happen, Sal!"

"Uh…but your party is da same night, Johnny…you want we should invite Fozzie, like, as a return gesture?"

"Whaddayou, nuts? My party's only for people in show biz! I can't have bears droppin' in!" Johnny lowered his voice, leaning close to his trusty flunky. "Besides…I'm tryin' ta get dat Cal-bert guy to interview me on his show, and he's on my guest list, capiche? You know how he is about bears."

Camilla clucked affirmatively at Fozzie, and he bounded off to the next Muppet in his line of sight, apparently frantic to get everyone possible involved. The chicken smoothed down her lovely wings with her beak, pleased by the idea of an old-fashioned autumn harvest theme for the party; she'd offered to bring along real candied corn. She never spoke of her chickhood to anyone but Gonzo, but the truth was, she did sometimes look back upon those innocent farm days with nostalgia. She'd immediately liked the practical Emily Bear when they'd met years ago at a Christmas celebration at the farmhouse, and seeing the country in all its autumn splendor appealed strongly to her as well. She'd suggested a bonfire to Fozzie, and he'd agreed enthusiastically, perhaps forgetting the necessity of keeping certain members of the Muppet company away from large open flames… The chicken's glance slid speculatively over to Beaker, who was meeping in loud protest and growing panic when the llama refused to stop chewing his hair.

The Newsman was surprised when the bear suddenly jumped in front of him. "Newsie! Hey Newsie! Are you free Saturday after this one?"

"Er…" A quick, confused review of his mental calendar didn't bring up any conflicts, but he was wary about agreeing to anything around here without further investigation. "I'm not sure. Why?"

"Oh! See, my Ma is throwing a Halloween party, and I want everyone to come! Uh, and…and…" The bear appeared sheepish. "Uh, can you bring Gina?"

Pleased but still cautious, Newsie gave him a careful nod. "Uh, I'm not sure if she's scheduled at her theatre that night, but I'll ask…"

"Oh great! Uh – uh – and can you, um…can you ask her to be da entertainment?"

"What?"

"Well, um, I saw her out front earlier, doing dem card tricks…I asked her if she'd teach 'em to me and she said it was a special Gypsy card trick thing. So, uh, could she bring dose cards to da party?"

The Newsman started to smile, then saw how absolutely in earnest the bear was, and suppressed it. "Well, er, you realize I can't speak for her, Fozzie. But yes, I think she'd be happy to attend as long as she doesn't have a schedule conflict. Count us both in."

Fozzie gave him a quizzical look. "You can't speak for her? I thought married people could do dat!"

"Shhhhh!" Newsie clamped a hand over the bear's mouth, glancing around worriedly, but then relaxed; Gina had left the backstage area a few minutes ago and should be sitting out in the house by now to watch the show, as she had almost every night since the two of them had started dating earlier this year. "Don't ever, ever," he cautioned Fozzie, "EVER use that word around her!"

"But I thought – she was wearing dat ring you gave her –"

"It's a matter of semantics," Newsie explained, sighing. "Yes, as far as I know we'll be happy to come to the party, Fozzie. Sorry…I need to get ready…" Bewildered, Fozzie nodded, and with a nod back, the Newsman hurried downstairs to his dressing-room.

Fozzie scratched his head. "Semantics," he repeated, confused. "Huh…someone should tell him not all of us have learned Gypsy language like him…"

"I speak Urdu, Bawkbawk, and a little Yiddish," Gonzo commented, overhearing him. "But I think that was more the language of compromise than anything else."

"Oh, hi, Gonzo! Hey, my Ma is throwing a party…"

Camilla noticed Fozzie chatting up Gonzo. She felt deeply regretful about having to turn down her darling Whatever's latest crazy attempt at stardom…especially when he looked so smart in that fall-colored outfit. She knew exactly what snuggling against that soft sweater would feel like… A pang of loneliness caught her by surprise. She envisioned Gonzo holding her tight next to a smoky bonfire, sharing a cup of fresh cider, gazing up at the stars on a crisp rural night… Slowly, she walked over to where the stylish but overeager daredevil was listening to Fozzie expounding the attractions of a celebration in the countryside.

"So dress up as whatever you want, and come join us! It'll be a bla…" Fozzie caught himself in time, disappointing Crazy Harry, whom he caught listening in over the balcony. "Uh…it'll be great! And Ma would love ta see you again!"

"Eh…I dunno, Fozzie. I mean, sure, it sounds wonderful…but I'm auditioning for a new show tomorrow, and I'm sure to get the part, and I don't know when the show will be shooting!"

"Oh," Fozzie said, taken aback. "A…a new show? You mean like…not dis one?"

Gonzo sighed. "Well…you know I love you guys, Fozzie. You're family! But…but I need room to grow as an artist, and, well…this other show wants insanely dangerous stunts! I mean, it's exactly what I've always dreamed of!" He patted the crestfallen bear on the arm. "Oh, don't worry, I'll be there if I can! Hey, who would turn down the chance to walk through a bonfire in their bare feet, right?"

"Uh…okay," Fozzie said.

Camilla stopped. Her feathers drooped a moment. Then she turned around, straightened her neck up, and trotted back to the other girls fussing with their beaded costumes before Gonzo could notice her. Sighing inwardly, she cast an unhappy look at the daydreaming daredevil as he hustled down to the canteen, then responded to a clucked question from one of the other hens, keeping her tone light, pretending she didn't mind at all that Gonzo was choosing a new act over what he might have held onto here.

She kept her head high, her demeanor professional, when the chickens danced out onstage, and her voice didn't waver one bit as she took up the song: "Bawk bu-gawk buh-bawk-bawk bok bok buk bawk buk…buk-kawk-kaw baaawwwk!"

Not one little bit.

Beau stuck a large spike with a handle in front of a startled Fozzie. "Do you think this will work for the pumpkins? I found a pickaxe too…"

***

Carl leaned over the shorter monster, his enormous pink nose wrinkling in distaste. "Well, he can do the intro voiceover thingy later when I'm done! I got dibs!"

"Dibs! When did you call dibs? He's scheduled to be here for this thing right now!"

Snookie cautiously poked his head into the sound booth. "Uh…heh heh…I thought I was supposed to be doing a voiceover for…" He glanced at the paper in his hand, and adjusted his grey tie nervously. "Uh, American Sidle – the hit show where everybody slinks sideways for cash?" he read the show's promo blurb aloud. Oh, frog. Am I at the wrong soundstage? The monster crew tended not to be understanding about schedule confusion, even though they frequently changed details at the last minute, and finding his way around this warren of studios and show sets was worse than navigating the Atlanta airport during the holidays.

Carl shoved the smaller monster, a greenish frackle, roughly aside, squashing its mouth all the way up to its furry ears against the sound mixing board in the cramped booth, which settled the argument. The Big Mean Chef grabbed Snookie by the collar of his jacket, grinning toothlessly at him. "Not right now you're not! I have a cooking contest to win, and I need a taste test!"

"You…you want me to taste something for your cooking contest?" Snookie wondered, utterly floored. Oh heck no, that can't be good. What is it, eels flambé again? Maybe bugs in a light cream sauce? He shivered, immediately gagging.

Carl chortled, dragging him down the hallway. "Don't be silly! I need to taste-test you! Now, do you think you'd go better with more cumin, or more paprika? I can't decide."

"Eeegh!" Snookie tried to wriggle out of his jacket, but Carl grabbed his arm as well, propelling him unwillingly toward the cooking studio. Another conflict awaited the gourmand monster, however. Beautiful Day yanked open the door just as Carl was reaching for the knob, having tucked Snookie's head under his hairy arm so the host wouldn't escape.

"Hey! No fair trying to peek at my recipe!" Carl snarled.

"Who says I care about your stupid loser barbeque? I'm gonna win it with my triple-slathered slime-glazed walrus!" B.D. claimed, holding up a quite slimy Fawningham Offawump. Snookie was gasping too hard to even appreciate his threat to the annoying walrus had come true.

"Whatever! But get outta that studio! I have it reserved from six to eight!"

"Oh yeah? Says who?"

"Says so right there!" Carl pointed to the room's signup sheet, posted clearly on the dreary, dripping wall next to the door.

B.D. promptly ate the sheet. "Bwah hah hah! Now scram! I gotta practice my presentation for the judges!"

Incensed, Carl the Big Mean Diva roused himself from a growl to a howl: "Your presentation? As if! You'll be choking on your own fur when the judges taste this spicy morsel, you fat slob! You couldn't cook your way out of a tinfoil drainpipe!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Monster disagreements usually involved a great deal of posturing and threats, very seldom actual clawing, biting, or swallowing one's opponent whole – at least, not when the monsters were more or less evenly matched. It then became an issue of bravado, Snookie had observed, and the best response was always to sneak away unseen if he could. Carl's grip on him had indeed loosened a little, and if this argument over use of the fully-equipped, gas-fired, soundproofed-against-screaming-main-dishes studio continued much longer, Snookie had no doubt he and the walrus would be ignored while the monsters squared off and tried to force the other one to back down. However, something they kept repeating troubled him deeply enough he finally croaked out, "Uh, guys? Guys!"

Surprised an entrée would interrupt, both monsters stared at him. "What?" Carl grumped.

Fawningham was staring round-eyed at Snookie in pure shock. Snookie swallowed down a flash of fear, and asked, "Uh…you keep using the word judges, plural…how…how exactly is that going to work? I mean, heh heh, I thought you guys didn't like to share!" The idea of being included in a cooking contest was horrible enough, but he had been devoured whole by several of these numbskulls before; often enough to be able to close his eyes, hold his breath, and go to his happy place while enduring the stink of monster digestive tracts. But being eaten multiple times? No, he didn't think he could handle that. Not more than one trip through the alimentary canal, thank you…not to mention the intestines…

Carl actually gave him a straight answer. "Well, it wouldn't be a very fair contest if there was only one judge, now would it? Any idiot can buy off one other monster!"

"The judges all hate each other," B.D. chipped in. "So it'll be totally fair…and of course that means my dish will win!"

"All? Wha—what do you mean all? How – how many times are they going to…to…" Snookie couldn't finish the question, shuddering.

Carl snorted. "Once each! Well, okay, they each get a piece, of course! Duh! Don't you ever watch Iron Chef?"

"A piece?" Panicking, Snookie struggled, but Carl clenched his arm around the host's neck. Snookie choked out, "You…you can't tear me in pieces! That goes against my contract!"

"Does not! I've read your contract!" Carl the Big Mean Lawyer produced a briefcase out of some huge hidden pocket of fur, flipping it roughly open and yanking a long roll of paper from it, which he snapped in Snookie's face. "See? Right there it says, 'The Host may be subjected to any action required for any show by any monster, pursuant to article X.13'!"

"You can't tear me up!" Snookie gasped, fighting as hard as he could, but the headlock didn't budge an inch.

"Maybe you better ask the boss," B.D. muttered, looking a little doubtful.

"I'm not bothering the boss with this!" Carl growled, but then perked up. "Hey! Get the vet down here! Vet! One'a the critters is whining! Hey vet!" he bellowed.

Within a few seconds, a tall Muppet in a stained lab coat bounded into the corridor, irritably pushing a pair of large goggles up his long forehead. "What? What? Who called?"

"Hey, Doc. This troublemaker says we can't rip him in pieces for our cooking contest," Carl snorted, shaking Snookie like a ragdoll.

The vet looked Snookie over dismissively. "So? Call a lawyer! Not my problem!"

Carl rolled his eyes. "Well, look, we do need him for other stuff. He's…" Carl leaned over to whisper roughly, "He's the boss' favorite, so we can't actually turn him into pulled jerky if it's gonna ruin his career."  
"Hmm, I see your problem," the vet said. Thoughtfully he tugged Snookie's hands, pulled his ears, and flopped one of Snookie's legs up and down while the show host stared at him in shock.

"Hey, you're…you're a Muppet!" Snookie gurgled around the headlock, recognizing the strange doctor from the KMUP station both had worked for years ago.

The vet sniffed. "Well, isn't he the obvious one!" He waved his hands in a shooing motion at Carl. "Yes, yes, you can rip him limb from limb if you want, he'll be fine! I can always stitch him back up good as new! Well, almost. Probably. I think."

Fawningham groaned and drooped in a faint, irritating B.D.

"No! No! I will not be fine! NO!" Snookie shouted. "No! If you do this, I'll – I'll – I'll rig every game! I'll cheat every contest! I'll – I'll –" Desperate to find some kind of trump card, he fortunately thought of one thing he knew they'd hate. "I'll make you eat me every show!" When Carl stared at him, one tooth sticking up from his lower jaw in utter bewilderment, Snookie continued breathlessly, "Every show! In a week it'll be old shtick! Boring! Ratings will plummet like the production standards around here!" Panting in triumph, he stared wide-eyed up at the monsters. "You think the boss will like that? Huh? Ratings dropping? Think he'll be happy with you guys?"

Uncomfortably, Carl shifted from one enormous green foot to the other. B.D. shook his head, muttering curses. The vet chuckled. "Well! Looks like you don't need me after all! It's not as though I was in the middle of anything important, like, oh, I don't know…splicing tomatoes with piranha glands?" He glared at the monsters. "Next time, figure it out yourselves! I have work to do!"

As the tall, strangely floppy-limbed Muppet sauntered smugly off, B.D. yelled after him, "You're only allowed lab space 'cause you work for the boss, same as us, stringy-hair!"

"Ah, forget him," Carl grumbled. He shoved past B.D. into the cooking studio, hauling a weak-kneed Snookie after him. "Now butt out, Ugly Day! I got a dry rub to perfect!"

"Dry rubs are so last year!" B.D. rumbled. "Who's gonna tell them we can only have one judge?"

"You are! I'm busy!" Carl snapped, slamming the door in the other monster's face. B.D. growled and grunted, but dragged the unconscious walrus off by the tail to take the unhappy news to the producers. Snookie could only catch his breath, his heart still pounding and his head still reeling, when Carl released him long enough to fire up the ten-yard-burner gas grill.

Oh frog. Oh frog. Shivering all over at how close he'd come to being an unwilling yellow felt pull-apart bread roll, Snookie clung to the prep counter's edge, too shaky to move. He looked up worriedly when Carl turned around and grinned at him.

"Hi! For my recipe, I'd like to draw on the rich post-nuclear monster cuisine tradition, but with a twist! First, we coat the foam all over in my special secret spices…"

Snookie had just enough presence of mind to shut his eyes before the giant-sized sack of chili powder, cumin, parsley, and fine-ground Belgian cocoa flumphed over him in a cloud of sneeze-inducing dry powder.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX. _In which Gonzo's audition must impress Grouches, monsters, and the studio boss. Also, many things are eaten._

Gonzo squinted in the morning sun angling past the dilapidated buildings, trying to read the addresses on the tenement porticos. He'd been decidedly lost already twice this morning, starting when he took the wrong subway train and ended up wandering among the crowds camped in the financial district. Much as he would have loved to stay with the Occupy Wall Street folks, maybe do a little impromptu protest performance art, he really wanted to make this audition. Sure, the ad had said to be there by five p.m., and it was only ten-twenty a.m., but Gonzo took pride in being a professional, and pros always showed up early.

"789 in the 'Bloody Angle,'" he murmured aloud, comparing the actual street addresses to the one in the ad. "I guess this is the place…" He studied the building uncertainly. Sure, every devotee of gruesome history knew that tiny Doyers Street had been the site of spectacular ambushes by rival gangs in the roaring '20s (hence the nickname), but he perked up upon realizing that unless other prospective contestants could also read Mandarin lettering, they wouldn't be able to locate the exact building here on the edge of Chinatown. The only other problem was that although he saw numerous rusty fire escape stairs running up the buildings, so far he didn't see any means of going under them… With a determined step, he marched up to the stoop of the boarded-over former hotel. Although the door had crisscrossing CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER tape and a heavy-looking padlock, when he knocked, the tape fluttered down and the padlock fell open, apparently broken. Slowly the front door creaked inward. "Cool," Gonzo muttered, arching one eyelid. He entered carefully, blinking in the sudden darkness after the crisp bright morning light in the street.

A grand stairway coated in dust curled upward from a spacious lobby. Undeterred by the disintegrating cobwebs and holes in the floorboards, Gonzo trotted over to a broad desk and tapped the hotel bell upon it; with a sickened dink, the desk section crumbled and the bell fell through it. A bizarre purple thing popped up behind the desk, three eyes glaring at Gonzo. "Thhhabazza va?" it demanded. Stirred-up dust settled on the monster's green feathery hair and golden horns.

"Oh, uh, hi," Gonzo said. "I'm looking for the Ars Moribunda Studios. Am I in the right building?"

"Gazabba fragga ba!" the monster rasped.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I never learned Szechuan, only a little Mandarin," Gonzo apologized. He showed the ad to the creature. "The daredevil contest show! Auditions today! Uh…do you understand?"

"Ah! Frabba bagga fuh zazza!" the monster said, its protruding tongue scattering spittle everywhere while it nodded vigorously. Gonzo leaned back, not wanting monster spit on his best hound's-tooth wool coat.

"Uh…great. Which way do I go?"

"Frazza," the monster said, coming through the desk with a slam of the folding section of the countertop. It beckoned at him, heading for a more narrow set of stairs half-hidden behind the main one. Gonzo hefted his trunk, following the monster eagerly. Down they went, the walls surrounding the stairs turning from water-stained, once-grand wood paneling to brick, and finally to moist, rough-hewn grey rock; Gonzo realized they'd penetrated the bedrock of lower Manhattan. The air chilled, the stairs became slippery, and by the time they reached the bottom of the steps, he was grateful he'd put on his long undies beneath his performing outfit today. The monster ducked through a low overhang into a long corridor. A giant blue scowling thing abruptly stepped in front of Gonzo, and he jumped.

"Hey! Where do ya think you're goin'?" it growled. Before Gonzo could reply, the purple-and-green monster intervened with a paw on the blue thing's hefty arm.

"Zazabba magga! Frabba za," it explained, and the square-headed blue monster shuffled back a step.

"Oh, that's cool. Hey, I'll be one of the judges for that! Nice ta meet you. Call me B.D," it rumbled, sticking out a hand. Relieved, Gonzo shook it.

"Cool! I'm the Great Gonzo. Where's the studio?"

"I'll walk ya down there," B.D. offered. He waved off the three-eyed thing. "I got this, McGurk. You go back up."

"Garagga zazzo," the other monster agreed, and hastened back the way they'd come. Gonzo shook his head.

"Uh, no offense, but has he ever thought about getting onto a dental plan?" Gonzo whispered to the tall blue monster. "That's a pretty bad overbite. Makes it really hard to understand him."

B.D. chuckled. "Huh! You should hear him when he's got a mouthful of peanut butter fraggle chips! Come on, I'll show ya 'round."

"Thanks!" Gonzo had a better look at his guide when they both passed beneath a strange glowing worm on the ceiling. "Hey, your fur is the same as mine!"

B.D. grunted. "Well, don't think that buys you any points in my book! The last guy I met what had fur like me, I had to eat, and boy, was he terrible!"

"You didn't like his act?"

"No idea. We didn't get that far. But he really needed some garlic salt."

They wound through a maze of corridors, passing what seemed like an endless line of doors: behind some, flashing lights and screams; canned laughter and applause seeped underneath the jambs of others; still more had only darkness behind frosted glass windows. "Wow," Gonzo murmured. "What a great studio! How many shows do you film down here? Is it cheaper than an above-street space?"

"Eh…it's what the boss wanted, the network honcho. Says it makes him feel more at home." B.D. scratched his flat head. "I guess we do forty or fifty shows a day, but they're pretty cheap to put on. Mostly game shows and reality stuff." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at a closed door as they went by. "F'r instance, Monster Big Brother filmed in there last week."

"Wow, really?" Gonzo's eyes widened. "Hey, I missed last week's episode! Who got thrown out of the cave?"

"Nobody. But Peavey Heap got put into the trash compactor for breaking three cave rules."

"You mean –"

"Yep. They flattened him. Now he has to spend all of next week as a throw rug in the bathroom." B.D. snorted a laugh. "He's Gorgon's big brother, too! Just goes ta prove, ain't no favoritism no matter who you're related to on that show! Har har har!" He banged a fist on another door, which swung open to reveal a cavernous space hung with stage lighting trusses; a wide stage took up most of the room. "Here ya go. Audition's not actually 'til this afternoon but ya can go ahead and sign in if ya want." He gestured to a flimsy buffet table strewn with papers off to the side of the stage. "Ya gotta pass through the vetting committee first anyway. Speaking of passing…'scuse me. My walrus had a little too much olive oil. See ya later."

Gonzo returned the monster's wave, then looked slowly up and around. Hmm…should be enough overhead room for the motorbike rocket, he mused. But the stage floor doesn't look particularly flammable…maybe I could pour hydrazine on it, and get a really good blaze going before I try to shoot the hoops with the super-nitro-pogo-stick? Decisions, decisions… As he approached the table, he noticed squelching noises and flying pieces of trash just beyond it. The filth seemed to be coming out of a battered metal trash can. Gonzo peered inside cautiously. "Uh…hello?" he called down.

Two Grouches popped up, scraggy black eyebrows scowling at him. "What's the big idea? Can't you see we're busy?" complained one with dull orange fur and wispy grey hair. He wiped ketchup onto his red-striped power tie with a look of annoyance.

"Uh, sorry. It's just that I was told to come sign in here for the daredevil contest show…"

"Grrrr!" snarled the other Grouch, grey all over down to his fluffy mustache and hair sticking out from the sides of his head.

"Now see? You've upset my colleague! We're distinguished journalists! You think we want to be here? I'd rather not be! So leave us alone!" snapped the first Grouch.

"Uh, sure," Gonzo said, backing off. He didn't want garbage on his outfit just yet; he was saving that for the finale. Plopping his heavy trunk next to the table, he sat down upon it, since no other seats were in evidence, and picked up one of the sheets of paper. No sooner had he begun to read it when the grey Grouch snatched it away.

"Grrrrr!"

"Whaddaya think you're doing?" demanded the orange one.

Gonzo blinked at him. "Signing in?"

"Wait yer turn!"

Gonzo slowly looked around the room. Absolutely no one was here besides himself and the two grouchy guys in moldy suits. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were auditioning too."

"Audition! I'd rather not!" snorted the orange Grouch.

"Grrr!" agreed his colleague.

"Then why are you –"

"We're supposed to be vetting the applicants!"

"Oh…kay," Gonzo said. "Uh, well, here I am!"

The orange Grouch stared at him. "So? Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"All right. Want to see my act?" Gonzo offered.

"Grrrrr!" yelled the grey Grouch.

"No, I'd rather not!" The Grouches both simply stood there, fingers tapping the tabletop, waiting. Uncertainly Gonzo unbuttoned his coat to show them the spangly pink bodysuit and powder blue underwear. He drew his fuchsia cape from a coat pocket and fastened it around his neck.

"So. Ummm…I'm the Great Gonzo, I'm a former plumber, current star of the Muppet Show; uh, I will now juggle twenty moon jellyfish while dancing on a monofilament tightrope thirty feet above the floor!" Getting into the spirit of it, Gonzo threw open the trunk and began digging out the spool of fishing line, but the Grouches shook their heads.

"What the heck are you doing?" the orange one asked.

"I thought you needed to see my audition piece?"

"I'd rather not!"

"Grrrraaarrrrr!"

Frustrated, Gonzo gestured at the stage. "Well how the heck are you going to know if I'm right for the show if you don't know what it is I do?"

"We don't care what you do! Right, Walt?" The grey Grouch growled an apparent agreement, and the orange one continued, "Do you mind if you have to live at the studio?"

"Uh…well, yeah, I mean, I have a lot of friends, and I wouldn't want to leave them behind, but sure, I guess, if that's the way it's set up…" Gonzo said, startled by the question.

"Friends! Who cares! Is your life insurance paid up?"

"I think so…"

"Fine. Whatever." The Grouches abruptly turned away, going back to their trash-sorting. Or trash-spreading. Or whatever that was.

"Don't I have to sign a form or something?" Gonzo's gaze wandered over the multitude of disclaimers and legal negations of participants' rights scattered across the table.

"Grrrr!"

"You said it," the other agreed.

Annoyed, Gonzo furrowed his brow at them. The door banged open again and an enormous, round-headed, dirty tan monster wearing ragged workpants stomped in. A tiny, purple creature with a red fur collar skittered in behind it, keeping well out of range of the huge flat feet. "Change of plan!" the tan-furred thing bellowed. "Auditions are now!" It plunked itself down on the lid of the trash can, drawing glares from the Grouches.

"Oh, wonderful!" Gonzo exclaimed, bringing out the fishing line and looking around for a good post to tie the ends up.

"B-b-but Hemmy…uh…uh…aren't we waiting for B.D?" the shivering little monster asked, casting a wide-eyed gaze around the room as if expecting something awful to jump out any second.

"Will you stop calling me that? It really gets under my skin," the tan thing grumped, crossing one thick leg over the other. "No, let's do it without him! That way I get to pick the acts I like! Now get up here, Sanchez!"

Reluctantly, the shivering little creature clambered onto the table. "Wh-wh-where's Cecil?" it asked. "We c-c-can't do the show without h-h-him! He'd get m-m-mad!"

"Hey, are you guys the judges?" Gonzo asked, eager to make a good impression.

The tan thing swung around to stare at him with large round eyes. Everything about the monster, Gonzo noticed, was rounded: its head, its eyes, its wide mouth, and the fat teeth scattered within. "Judges and producers! Who wants to know?"

"I'm the Great Gonzo! I've prepared an audition piece for you so amazing, so original, you'll need a belt to hold your jaws up off the floor when I'm done!" Gonzo bragged, tossing his cape back with a flourish. "Just let me rig up the high wire…"

"Who said you were going first?" the orange Grouch snapped.

Gonzo looked around. "There's no one else here!"

"Well I'm sure there will be!" the Grouch chortled unpleasantly.

The tan monster drummed its fat round fingers on the table loudly. "Well? You gonna audition or what? It's almost lunch!"

"P-p-please audition! Please!" the smaller monster begged Gonzo, trembling violently.

"Actually…I could go for a snack," the tan monster mused, eyeing the small one speculatively. He reached for a salt shaker on the table.

"Aaaagh!" the shaky creature yelped as the tan one grabbed it.

"Oh, quit complaining! It's sea salt!" the tan thing grumbled, sprinkling coarse crystals over the small thing in its grip.

"Er…okay…I call this act the 'Tribute to Cousteau!'" Gonzo announced, tying off the fishing line on one lighting truss and scrambling across the stage lights to tie the other end around another pole thirty feet distant. He dropped to the floor and quickly fetched the sloshing suitcase of jellyfish from his steamer trunk.

The door banged open. B.D. ambled in, dragging a large insect in a white jumpsuit with him. "Found this guy in the hallway. He wants to audition too. Hey – were you guys trying to start without me?" B.D demanded angrily.

The bug twitched its antennae, shaking its head so that the oversized motorcycle helmet it wore banged back and forth. "Uh, y'know, I changed my mind! I –I think I left the stove on! I should really gah—" The tall blue monster swung the bug towards the stage.

"Go on, get on up there and let's see whatcha got!" Turning to growl at the tan monster slurping and gulping the kicking feet of the protesting purple creature, B.D. shook his head. "That's a really dirty trick, Hem! C'mon, I would've waited for you!"

"Sorry. I just…urpp…really wanted to get the auditions over with."

"Who cares about the auditions? I meant lunch!" B.D. dragged Gonzo's trunk closer to the table and plunked his bottom onto it.

"Can w-we just d-do this, please?" came a muffled voice from inside Hem's throat.

"Almost ready!" Gonzo called, balancing several of the unhappy, clear jellyfish along his arms and his nose.

"Nah, the bug goes first!" the orange Grouch snarled. He rolled a small motorbike over to the shivering bug. The jumpsuited insect looked worriedly back toward the door, clearly calculating its chances at making a scramble for it. "Get up there! We ain't got all day!"

"Uh, I was first," Gonzo said, surprised.

"Well, we say the bug goes first! Heh heh heh," the orange Grouch grinned at him.

"Grrr!" his companion agreed, nodding.

"Okay, whatever," Gonzo grumbled, climbing down, doing his best to keep the slippery jellies from squelching down onto the stage. "Whoops…sorry, Francine…" Cradling all the shifting, pulsing invertebrates in his arms, Gonzo settled into a folding chair which he was sure hadn't been there a few minutes ago. Must have some very quick stagehands here, he thought.

"I...uh…I didn't realize the judges would be monsters…" the insect stammered uncertainly, touching the handlebars of the motorbike as if reluctant to trust it.

"You some kinda bigot?" Hem roared, startling Gonzo.

Hoo, boy! I can tell which one is the token 'cranky guy,' he thought. Maybe I should sing 'Down by the Sea' instead of 'Under the Sea'? Yeah, an oldie might be the better choice. He deeply wished Camilla was here for him to consult; her musical taste was very shrewd when it came to intuiting what any particular audience would most find favor hearing. Wonder if they're filming this? Will she see it? Looking around hopefully, he did indeed see a green Frackle tiredly manning a camera pointed vaguely at the stage. "Oh, great," he muttered. "Hope he knows enough to aim that thing up for my act!"

"He weel," a scratchy voice right at Gonzo's shoulder startled him. Looking back, he saw a figure hunched over, seeming to be mostly bristly snout and a draping of overlapping rags, with dark sunglasses hiding its eyes. The creature shook a warped wooden cane toward the judges' table. "He bettair, eef he knows what ees good far heem!"

"Uh, hi," Gonzo said, tuning out the argument over monsterphobic prejudice going on loudly at the table. "I'm the Great Gonzo, Performance Artiste of the Deadly, the Daring, and the Developmentally Arrested! And you would be…?"

"Ah am zee deerector! Cecil de Blind Pew, af course! Hey you! You eediot operator of zee camera! Point eet at zee artist, not zee floor!"

"Uh," Gonzo gently adjusted the angle the director was pointing. "He's over there…"

"Ah know zat! Do you seenk ah am an eediot? Do you seenk ah haff not been a deerector for all mah life? Hmf!" Insulted, the director swished his raggy cloak, retying it at his scrawny neck. "You do your job, an do not tell me how to do mahne!"

"Sorry," Gonzo said. Good grief, everyone around here seemed so touchy. Well, maybe the fast production schedule B.D. had mentioned was making them all cranky; he could understand that. Keeping up with the Muppet Show and trying to film movies on the side often brought out the grouchy aspect of Kermit as well as everyone else involved after too many hectic days in a row. "I, uh, I understand you guys film a lot of game shows down here?"

"Oui, oui. Eet is vairy busy, no?" Pew said, slightly mollified. "A lessair man would be a bundle of nairves by now, no? But you see how well ah maintain mah professionalism!" He suddenly picked up an empty sardine can, shaking it in the air. "Hey! You Grouches! Stop leetering mah studio!" He flung the can hard and directly at the tall tan monster. When it bonked his head, both monsters swung around to stare at the ranting ragged person. The Grouches snickered.

"So, uh, uh, my name is Weevil Kneivel," the insect said, nervously stroking the side of the bike. "I, uh, I do stunt jumps."

"Kinda figured," Hem rumbled.

"So whaddaya gonna do for us today, Weevil?" B.D. asked, settling down.

The bug took a deep breath, adjusted his helmet, which had slid over his eyes again, and explained, "So, uh…today, I will ride my bike up that ramp, jump across that pit full of venomous and tumor-causing eels, go through the tunnel of radioactive ooze, around the double-corkscrew loop, up to that platform guarded by a rare white mountain gorilla, and then dive from it, landing safely in that Jell-o mold of Mickey Mouse's head!"

"Oh, geez," Gonzo muttered. "How unoriginal! If that's all he's got, I'm a shoe-in for this thing!"

While Weevil warmed up his bike and walked it into position at the start of the eighty-degree-ramp, Gonzo turned to the director. "So, do you work on other shows besides this?"

"Waaaiilll…I haff done some episodes af 'America's Least Wanted,'" Pew said modestly. "And just last week, ah was asked to take ovair zee post-production edeeting af 'Who Wants to Bee a Millipede?' Eet ees not as glamorous as zis show, af course, but ah belieeve een widening one's résumé, no?"

"Have you done a lot of editing before?" Gonzo asked curiously. Pew seemed to be having trouble orienting on him; he kept addressing the post just to Gonzo's right. Onstage, the motorbike roared as Weevil gunned it up the ramp and into the jump, screaming.

"OhfrogIforgottofixthesteeeriiiing!"

"He's gonna miss the eels," Hem complained.

"I h-hope so," the smaller monster gurbled, his head sticking out of Hem's wide mouth before being shoved back down inside.

"Nope, he got 'em," B.D. observed, over the shrieks of the eels and a frantically sputtering engine.

"Af course! What doo you take me far? Ah was zee preencipal edeetor on zee 'Blind Weetch Project' years ago! Deed you not see mah amazeeng jump cuts?" Pew sniffed. "You zhould be counteeng your blessings to be working weeth a deerector of mah genius!"

"Sorry, of course," Gonzo agreed. Personally, he'd thought the whole "Blind Witch" phenomenon to be vastly overrated, more hype than horror, and the camerawork…well, this explained a lot. "Uh, just curious: was the cinematographer related to you?"

"He was mah couseen," Pew nodded. "Ah! You noteeced zee art runs in mah family, no?"

The motorbike fought free of the eels finally, though Weevil struggled one-handed to pull one of them off his helmet, which was blocking the visor with its mouth. Large welts were beginning to swell on his shoulders and back where the eels had torn through the flimsy glittered polyester. "Get off! Get off! Waaaaaaaaaahhh!" The insect daredevil zoomed wildly through the clear plastic tube of glowing pink ooze, the front wheel skidding horribly and suddenly popping loose. "Oh nooooooo!"

"A wheelie into the corkscrew!" Hem said, impressed.

B.D. snorted. "He'll never make the jump like that."

"Nah, look – the gorilla is waiting to catch him."

"So, what about you?" Pew asked Gonzo, warming to him. "Haff you been doing televeesion long?"

"Oh, a few years," Gonzo understated. "But never anything this cool! I'm really looking forward to performing some of my most dangerous stunts ever!"

"Zat ees good," Pew nodded. "Zeez judges, zey like zings dangerous! Ah haff seen some of zee competition already, and ah must tell you, you weel need all zee guts you can mustair for zis!" He chuckled and patted the empty seatback next to Gonzo. "Ah hope you brought your best treecks today!" He frowned lightly. "You are strangely skeeny for a darer af zee deveel…do you take vitameens? You zhould conzider doing so…"

"Maaaannn," Hem complained over the gurgling cry onstage. "Didn't even make it to the Jell-o!"

"You know, I'm r-really getting t-tired of all the indiscriminate eating of people around here," the small monster complained from Hem's collarbone.

"Well, I'll have the Jell-o then, as long as it's not strawberry. I hate strawberry," B.D. said, stretching his arms above his head and resettling himself on the trunk.

Gonzo suddenly saw someone heading onstage at a steady, determined pace. "Hey," he told Pew, "I thought I was next! That guy in the black hooded shroud is…is…" He blinked, eyes widening.

"Oh, pay no attention to heem," Pew assured him. "Zat's just our…our…stage manageer. He…ahh…lahkes to dress Goth. Heh heh. Brake a laig, Gorgonzola!"

"Gonzo," Gonzo muttered. "It's the Great Gonzo."

"Whatevair! Go do what you do!" Pew waved him off airily, then turned to yell at one of the grouches trying to sneak out the door. "Hey! Ah zee you! What do you zink you are doing, sneaking aff wizout refilling mah coffee, ah?"

"I'm not your p.a!" the orange grouch snapped back.

"Like zee heck you air not! Now feel zees up!" Pew thrust a battered tin cup at no one in particular.

"I'd rather not," the grouch smirked, leaving the studio.

"Grrr!" his colleague echoed. The door thumped closed behind them.

Gonzo hurried up to the eels still squirming restlessly in their pit onstage. "Psst! Hey, uh, since you guys are out of a job now, wanna do a gig with me?" He listened to the shrill noises they made in reply, and broke into a smile. "Great! Uh – can any of you play accordion? No? Okay…then here's what we'll do…"

"Can we move this along? It's past lunch now," Hem yelled.

B.D. started back, scowling at the other large monster. "Hey! Don't look at me!"

"Serves me right for picking a critter from around here," Hem said, wrestling the small purple thing back down his throat. "Eat one, and an hour later you're still hungry!" The monsters rumbled belly laughs.

"Can you hike up the trusses higher? Great, thanks," Gonzo said to the Frackle technicians hanging off the lighting truss. As they grudgingly obeyed, Gonzo leaped onto the stage and spread both arms wide. "Hello! Today, I, the Great Gonzo, will perform the most death-defying rendition of the classic song 'Down by the Sea' ever attempted, so hold onto your seats and keep the popcorn handy! Guys? Hit it!"

A chorus of eels began humming the old lounge standby. Gonzo sang, doing the most melodic crooning he could manage: "Somewhere…down by the sea…my lover stands on golden saaaaaannnds…" Quickly he climbed up the handholds of the truss support nearby to the thin line of monofilament while he sang, and stepped out onto the string. "And watches the ships…that go saaaaiiiiling!" Throwing all the wobbly transparent creatures high into the air, he jumped off the line, hands outspread, his nose hooking the line as he came down. The line bounced him a bit, but Gonzo didn't flinch, and as the jellies came raining down he expertly caught each of them in his hands, along his arms and shoulders and head, and with his upturned toes. "Thank you!—One day, I'll sail away…" As he began the next verse, the eels thrumming harmonically below him (and eagerly looking up to see if he'd fall into their drooling jaws), Gonzo juggled the jellyfish, touching each one only lightly, feeling their slime brushing his fingers as he flicked them into the air in an intricate pattern over and over, not dropping a single one.

That's it, he encouraged himself. Left, right, over, under, across…that's it…gee, those eels hum well, wonder if they'd make this a regular partnership? Just for the show, at least. Okay…now start bouncing… Gently at first, he wiggled his nose up and down until the fishing line began to wobble; as he went into the musical bridge, his eyes tracking the flying jellyfish carefully, the whole line began to sway up and down, higher, lower, higher, lower still. Yes! Big finish! Adrenaline rushed through him, he forgot about the judges and the eels and the shrouded technician who seemed to be intently watching him from just offstage, and just enjoyed the breeze made by his own gyrations, the feel of utter recklessness buoying him higher than the flimsy fishline could.

Tossing all the jellies up at once, he flipped himself over in midair and snagged the line with his toes; the jellies smacked one after another into his outstretched palms and he flung them up again before reversing the jump. Toes, nose, toes, nose, juggle, juggle, yeah that's it! Oh, Camilla, sweetie, this is for you, for you! I hope you're watching when this airs! Elated, he shouted the last verse while continuing to flip himself into the air and onto the fishing line, not missing a catch anywhere: "…and my love and I, we'll – go – saaaaaiiling!"

"He's in," Hem decided.

"H-he's very brave," the shaky thing burbled from deep inside Hem's guts.

"Eh, seen better, but okay," B.D. sighed. "Is it lunch yet?"

***

A dark figure slumped in an enormous chair before a wall of television screens, each one tuned to a different studio in the vast complex. No lights picked out the details of the black room; the numerous shifting, flickering images from the TVs were illumination enough for the network head as his small eyes slid from one screen to the next, lips pursed, overseeing all, no action anywhere onscreen escaping his notice. He watched Gonzo performing his act finale, and fleshy lips curved into a smile.

"Eustace," he murmured. His personal assistant, a scaly monster with a shaggy dark green head and long back-curving horns, crept forward at once, cringing at his side.

"Yess, your sssliminesss?" Eustace asked, nervously smoothing his front claws over his horns as if slicking back a hairdo.

One pointed fingertip jutted at Gonzo onscreen. "I like him."

The flunky glanced at the indicated show. "He'sss interesssting, to be ssssure. You're ssssuch a good judge of talent, your sssslipperinesss."

"I know." The boss shifted complacently on his throne. He tapped a thoughtful finger against his wide chin. "Make sure he makes it to the finals."

"I'll inform the judgesssss at onsssse," Eustace assured his lord and master.

"Excellent." The head of the network lapsed back into silence. With a low bow, Eustace shuffled backward out of the Presence, about to run down to studio Zag-three to inform the judges whom they should favor, when a finger crooked at him. "Oh, and Eustace?" Expectantly, the scaled doglizard perked his long ears. The boss didn't bother to look around, knowing his servant was listening. "Tell Blyer he's hosting that one, too."

"Er," the flunky said, squirming. "I…I think he isss not yet out of the bunny, my lord sssslimy."

"Ah. Well, when he's done with Carl, have him get cleaned up. He should do an intro for the auditions so we can air them tomorrow night, and then we'll start filming live on Saturday. Make the arrangements." The beady eyes remained fixed on the screen, where Gonzo bowed to the judges, and they began offering their critiques. "Pity he wasn't there today. I'd like an interview of that performer. Rig up an after-show session with the two of them."

"Yesss, your dark overlordinessss," the flunky agreed at once. He backed away, opening the door to the control center as quietly as possible (he oiled the hinges nightly, just to make sure no untoward squeaking disturbed the boss; the boss hated squeaking things), relieved to be dismissed even for a few minutes. No one could ever question his loyalty to their master, but all the same, Eustace didn't like the chill in the air in the master's presence. He had to take Thera-Grue every night just to keep from catching a cold down here, more accustomed to sunny climes. Turning to exit, he drew up short upon seeing a pinkish, stringy thing and a blue one suddenly materializing right outside. Whispering a curse, Eustace shut the door, gulped, and tentatively reapproached his lord.

Those cold eyes flicked directly at him in annoyance. "What is it? Was I not clear?"

"Oh yesss, your ssslithering sssumptuousnesss…ah…er…"

"Well?"

Never knowing how his boss would receive an interruption, Eustace swallowed down his fear. "The…the Martiansss are here to report sssomething, ssssir."

"Ah!" Bulk shifted; the eyes relaxed. Eustace's heart slowed from a pizzicato to a tremolo. "Send them in."

"At onsssse," Eustace said, hurrying to open the door, but before he reached it, the odd monsters wobbled right through it, jerking around and ogling everything.

"Mm! Show. Show. Yip yip yip."

"Show, good? yip yip yip yip?"

Eustace grimaced as the two bizarre things scuttled around the control center, touching levers, peering at screens, and yipping monotonously. These creatures baffled him; didn't they understand they were dealing with the supreme head of the entire network? The person in charge of all the monsters here, who ruled by might and darkness? Didn't they have any respect for—

"Flun-ky," one of the creatures said, shoving its goggle-eyes right in Eustace's snout; he jumped back, startled. "Mn. Flun-ky go. Go. Yip yip yip yip yip go. Uh-huh."

"Hello, my darling little yarn-bags," the boss murmured, stroking the head of the blue one; it pushed upwards against his palm happily. "What have you to tell me?"

"Bad man," the blue thing said. "Bad man see too much. Mn. Too much. Yip yip yip."

"News," the pink one said, perking up, slithering randomly over the long console of switches and dials before the boss's chair. "News. Too much. Yip yip yip yip yip!"

"Uh-huh," the other agreed.

The boss turned his head slightly, the profile of his bulbous nose caught in the glow of five dozen plasma screens. "Eustace? You still here?" The voice was low, quiet.

"I go at onssse, my lord," the flunky croaked, stumbling out the door and shutting it swiftly. Outside, he held onto the doorhandle a moment, panting silently. He had no idea what the Martians did for the boss; he had no idea if they were really even from Mars. They were hardly ever down here, and that was all he knew. Then again, if the boss had them on some secret assignment, it was probably better that Eustace not know the details. He had heard that his predecessor, a pink Frackle with webbed wings and ingrown toeclaws named Ted, had been curious about the boss' private business.

Curious. And one day…gone. No one would say where or how, but when Eustace had asked other monsters about the fate of the previous personal assistant, giant fanged beasts and slavering trolls had all suddenly clammed up and remembered they had urgent things to attend elsewhere. No…it wasn't a good idea to ask too many questions down here.

Eustace could recall the time before he came here. Ah, how carefree he had been, eating lost hikers in the Yucatan! But then he'd responded to that want ad in the paper… "Come to the Big Apple! Monsters urgently needed for malevolent operations! Great food! All vacations paid! Low-copay HMO!" Oh, sure, it had all sounded so great…until you found out you couldn't leave without the boss' say-so. The doglizard shivered. Oh, how he hated the chill down here! And the walls always dripping, and the giant spiders…ugh! Shaking himself out of his unhappy reverie, the monster reminded himself the boss didn't tolerate laggards, and hurried up from the bowels of the network studios to go check on other bowels, hoping whatever shape the in-demand game show host was in, he'd be presentable by five o'clock so they could shoot the mock interview with the weird-beaked blue guy who'd just earned himself a spot on the talent show. Eustace sighed.

The worst part was, he'd always hated reality TV…


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN. _In which the Newsman and Rhonda Rat encounter Muppets-rights activists and unhappy rodents; and Gonzo does not particularly impress Snookie._

Gina gazed fondly at her Newsman in the mirror as they stood side-by-side at the bathroom counter, both putting finishing touches on their looks for the day ahead. "See? Told you the conditioner would solve the dry-hair problem."

Newsie nodded, and even chuckled when she suddenly reached over to muss the clean, curving part he'd just combed into his short auburn waves. Fixing it again, he smiled at her while she put in beautiful blown-glass earrings to match the necklaces of glittery red-and-gold glass beads draped in several lengths over her long black sweater-dress. She smiled back wistfully. "I wish you could come with us today. It's going to be amazing."

"It sounds…interesting. But I have to remain impartial," he reminded her. Gina was going to stand with some of her theatre friends on Wall Street today; she'd designed and helped to paint the banner they'd be holding up denouncing corporate tax breaks. The Newsman spoke of his own political views to no one but his beloved, strongly standing on principle: journalists reporting events ought to remain separate from those events, not allowing their own opinions to color their story coverage. The "fair and balanced" misstatement another network so loudly proclaimed, while repeatedly painting the protests with a broad brush of mockery, disgusted him; he for one was determined that the ideals of journalism would not be compromised so long as he was on the air!

"You could come join us when you've finished your report," Gina suggested, but Newsie shook his head.

"Sorry…no. Every amateur with a cameraphone will be down there, and if footage of me standing with you got out…"

"People might see your heart's in the right place?" Gina smiled. Newsie blushed a little. Sighing, she agreed, "I know, I know. I get it. What if you and Rhonda joined us for lunch, at least? You could pretend to be interviewing us."

"Maybe," Newsie hedged. "I do want to talk to as many groups as possible, get a clearer picture of exactly who is involved. The unions are down there now, which gives it more legitimacy in the public eye."

"Already working on your lead-in, hmm?" she teased him, bending down to offer a kiss, which he gladly and actively participated in. "Um…did you still want me to go talk to the donation folks?"

"Uh. Yes. I…I can't…"

Gina stroked his cheek. "Newsie. I really do understand, okay? Relax." He nodded, embarrassed. Last night when they'd discussed the day's plans, he'd surprised her by tentatively suggesting she take a large sum of cash down to the charity organizers who were making sure everyone camped on the street had water and hot food and first aid available. Gina had happily shown him how proud she was of him for wanting to do something helpful even indirectly…very proud, he reflected with another blush, certain images of his evening popping pleasantly into his thoughts. He knotted his tie, judging his appearance low-key enough to make sure the focus was on the more colorful protesters; he doubted any of them would be also wearing tan-and-brown plaid coats with dark brown ties. Gina grinned at him, watching him tweak his cuffs and his shirtcollar.

"Today, I will let you wear that without comment," she said.

"Isn't that a comment?" he returned.

She caught him in a long, deep kiss. When he wavered on his feet, staring breathlessly up at her, she giggled. "That was given with the understanding it is in spite of the outfit, dear Impartially Bland Journalist."

"I'll…I'll consider that a compliment," he gulped, trying to regain his equilibrium.

She held out one hand, grinning. "Ready to show those talking heads how it's done?"

He couldn't help but smile in reply, and together they went downstairs and out onto the street.

Once downtown, Gina separated from her determined Muppet with a kiss and went to find her friends; Newsie headed for the fountain in Bowling Green park, where Rhonda and the camerasloth were just setting up and dozens of protesters had gathered as a spillover site a few blocks from Wall Street. "Oh, look, Tommy," Rhonda cracked, "it's the Spirit of '76 – 1976, to be exact!"

"Cute," Newsie grumbled. "Let's start with the group here and just interview as we go."

"Talk now, edit later, works for me," Rhonda agreed, beckoning to the sloth to hoist the camera as they walked toward one clump of people having coffee in the chilly morning air, signs propped against the fountain rim behind them. "So, did you find out when your cousin's game show went off the air?"

"I found out that the rights to it were bought by another network back in '98, but after that the records get sketchy…but the show was in syndication for a while, and KRAK was one of the stations which carried it. I'm hoping somewhere in accounting, someone can dredge up the business address of the studio where the show was filmed, or at least the address of the producers," Newsie explained.

Rhonda gave him a startled look. "Seriously? You expect answers from Accounting anytime this century?"

"I did tell them in my email it was a matter of some importance," Newsie said uncertainly.

"Oh fer cryin' out…Goldie. Sweetheart. Ya know I like ya but sometimes you are so naive!"

"I couldn't find out any current information on my cousin!" Newsie said, annoyed. "I looked all over the Internet last night! Other than a few unhelpful reviews that barely even mentioned him, there was nothing! I can't even tell if he's…" He stopped, unable to voice his worry. Seeing the look on his face, Rhonda sighed.

"Okay…well…good thought, tracking down the production company for the show, but expecting the bean-counters to supply you with anything helpful is like waiting for Godot! You gotta take this into your own fuzzy hands, do some real investigating!" Rhonda paused. "Uh, you know that's a play, right? These two guys spend the whole thing waiting around…"

"Gina has a copy of the script," Newsie snapped, affronted.

"She's good for you. You needed some culture."

"Can we just focus on this right now?" he asked, gesturing toward the little group of protesters beginning to gather up their signs and Thermoses.

Rhonda shrugged, and Tommy began filming as Newsie approached the people to ask them what they hoped would happen as a result of their demonstrations.

The morning passed swiftly. Newsie roamed the entire financial district, interviewing anyone who would stop to speak with him for a moment, from irritated bankers, to kids wearing "anarchy" T-shirts, to costumed protesters playacting the tarring and feathering of a corporate CEO (at least, Newsie hoped they were all actors), to cops watching the proceedings dryly from the sidelines. Everyone had an angle, everyone had something to vent, and as noon arrived, the Newsman felt he'd at least begun to put together a fairly comprehensive look at the phenomenon.

A familiar face approached as Newsie stopped in front of the NYSE building. "Hey, Newsman! Good to see you out here! You need a sign? We brought extras," Scooter said, indicating a small group of Muppets hanging out at the foot of the stairs. Newsie recognized Rizzo, Pepe, and that monkey that always seemed to follow Johnny Fiama everywhere, as well as the theatre gofer.

The Newsman gestured at his news crew. "Uh, I'm here to report on the protests, Scooter. I can't really favor one side or another, sorry."

Scooter grinned. "Hey, no problem! Ya know, it's really a shame you never hooked up with those MacNeil-Lehrer guys. They'd like you." Feeling complimented, Newsie cleared his throat and adjusted his tie to draw attention away from the blush he felt touching his cheeks. "Well, we're supposed to be meeting this activist group here, and—"

"Oh, good! The media! About time!" exclaimed a blue-skinned Whatnot girl in a denim jacket covered with patches and political pins. She solemnly shook Scooter's hand and extended her fingers to Newsie as well, but he politely declined. Frowning at him, she tossed back her long purple hair and started barking orders: "So what are you guys waiting for? Lift those signs! Show some energy! Let's tell these fat cats we're not gonna take it any more!"

"Excuse me, but whom do you represent?" Newsie wondered. Rhonda nudged the sloth to roll tape.

The girl pointed her tiny round nose in the air. "Well, obviously, we're with MADL! We want the corporate heads to wake up and start hiring more—"

"Mabel? She's here?" Rizzo asked excitedly, trying to peer around the crowds thronging the sidewalk.

"Sí, sí, we could really use her cooking!" Pepe chimed in. The two of them jumped onto a safety railing next to the stairs and scanned eagerly in all directions.

"Meddle?" Newsie repeated uncertainly. "I don't believe I've heard of—"

"No! MADL! The Muppet Anti-Discrimination League!" the girl snapped. She gave Scooter an incredulous look. "I thought you said you were bringing some real activists? These guys don't even know what they're here for!"

"They were the only ones hanging around looking for a free lunch," Scooter explained sheepishly.

"Uh, I support da cause," Sal spoke up. The Whatnot girl's smile at him soured when he continued, "Dis is about making IRA portfolios payable in bananas, right?"

"What exactly are you hoping to change today?" Newsie asked, offering her his microphone.

She grabbed it, speaking directly to the camera, ignoring him. "We are outraged that major corporations refuse to hire more Muppets! There is today not one single example of a Muppet working within a Fortune 500 company anywhere past the ground level! This is blatant Antimuppetism and we will camp right here at the stock exchange until something is done to correct this unacceptable situation!"

Rhonda hooked a thumb at her journalist. "Hey, sister. Aren't you forgetting the one whose microphone you're hogging? We work for KRAK News!"

"Really? I've never seen him," the Whatnot sniffed.

Irritated, the Newsman grabbed his mike back, but just then an orange Whatnot with a fringe of blue hair and heavy-lidded eyes even more weary-seeming than Newsie's smoothly intervened. "Now, Constanza, let's not antagonize the media! They can be useful tools—er, that is, they may sympathize with our cause!" He smiled thinly at Newsie. "I see by your felt, sir, you clearly must favor the Muppet side in this action!"

"I told you to call me 'Stinkbomb,'" the girl complained under her breath.

Newsie studied the Whatnot warily. "I'm only an impartial observer, sir. The Newsman, for KRAK. So your organization is protesting a lack of Muppets in corporate offices?"

"Precisely. We at Bland and Blander founded our law firm expressly to combat the rampant discrimination we discovered among other firms! But unfair hiring practices don't end at the courtroom! No, we have done our homework, and you may be fascinated to know that less than one per cent of the nation's most successful companies employ Muppets!"

"Er…have there been many reported cases of Muppets being turned down for jobs due to their felt or fur?" Newsie wondered.

"Don't forget the feathery ones," Rizzo pointed out.

"Sí sí, and the scales and fins too, amigo!"

"There is ample implied evidence of discrimination!" the laywer proclaimed, shaking a fuzzy finger at the camera. He held onto his coat lapels precisely as Newsie imagined a nineteenth-century politician would do, stumping on the steps of city hall. Wouldn't surprise me if he runs for office soon, the Newsman thought.

"Can you give us concrete examples of this discrimination?" Newsie asked.

"What's your problem anyway? Oh, I get it, you have a cushy job with the non-felted, so why should you care what happens to the rest of us, huh?" the girl known as Stinkbomb sneered at him.

Taken aback, Newsie stared at her, but once again the lawyer passed a hand between them as if calming the waters. "Now, now, Constanza…"

"Stinkbomb!"

"Surely you recognize this Muppet. Earlier this year he was in the Daily Scandal for dating a young lady with, ahem, no felt," the lawyer continued, ignoring the girl's outburst. "He's quite the groundbreaker! We should be welcoming him into the fold of our cause, not making snide comments!"

"Er…my wife isn't…" Scooter began, exchanging a puzzled glance with Newsie, but the blue girl shouted him down, shoving her tiny nose directly in front of Newsie's long pointed one.

"You're dating one of them? What, was a Muppet girl not good enough for you? Hah! Well I'll have you know, you traitor, that none of us would want you anyway!"

Newsie started back a step, then scowled deeply. Rhonda tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Hey, uh, c'mon. I think we have all we need from this bunch."

Scooter was glaring coldly at the girl as well. "Hey, guys? Anyone else feel like a triple cream soda on the rocks?"

"Ain't it a little early for dat?" Sal wondered, looking at his watchless hairy wrist, but Rizzo smacked him disgustedly.

"Yeah, Scooter. I t'ink a drink sounds good right about now," the rat growled.

"Can we go to 'Rise'? They has amazing tapas…and even more amazing ladies in the short skirts and looong jackets, if you are catching my drift, heh heh," Pepe suggested suggestively.

As the Muppets left the MADL representatives behind, Rizzo grumped at the king prawn, "Haven't you learned your lesson about banker ladies by now?"

"Hey, they cannot all be evil power-brokers out to rob us blind and leave us in the dumpsters where Ricky Martin will never ever invite us to his parties again already, okay?"

The lawyer firmly pushed the angry Whatnot out of the way, chuckling. "Now, now, we're all Muppets here, right? Newsman, wasn't it? I don't recall seeing your name in the lists for the charity walk. Would you care to sign up today?"

Trying to regain his composure, Newsie still frowned at him. "What charity walk?"

"Why, the walk on the thirty-first to benefit the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League. I'm sure a journalist of your caliber would have no trouble finding sponsors, and, as I'm sure you realize, your public support would be a tremendous asset to our cause…"

Newsie edged away, holding his mike defensively. "Er, no, I have to decline, sir. As a journalist I have to maintain an absolutely unbiased perspective. All I can promise you is the chance to air your grievances on tonight's newscast, since we've filmed you here today."

"But you're clearly a Muppet," the lawyer wheedled. "Surely you must wish to see more success for us all in their world as well as ours? At least spend that evening giving us full coverage! We'll be at the condemned hotel in Doyers Street that night from—"

"Isn't that the rep from Manhattan over there?" Rhonda pointed out loudly. Shooting her a grateful look, Newsie broke away from the lawyer.

"Excuse me... Congresswoman Minelli! May I have a word?" Newsie called, running for the street where a handful of protesters were talking with the representative.

"Ah, well," the lawyer sighed.

The blue girl tossed her hair defiantly. "What a sellout! Come on, Blandie, let's make some noise!"

"Good grief, no, I can't be seen rabble-rousing! What do you think I hired you for?"

The interview with the Congresswoman, though short, made for some decent soundbites, and Rhonda was pleased at how Newsie tried his best to pin her down as to whether she agreed with the Occupy Wall Street movement or not, even though the politician's comments could be viewed either way. Well, she didn't keep her post this long without being all things to all New Yorkers, Rhonda thought in grudging admiration. They continued along the street, but when she noticed the camerasloth starting to eye some of the saplings planted along the walkway, Rhonda tapped her reporter's elbow.

"Hey, Jennings. You gonna stand out here all day getting every single viewpoint, or can we break for lunch already?" When the Newsman glared at her, she continued before he could come up with a retort: "Look, we have hours of footage. Why don't we grab a bite and then check out the soapbox in front of the stock exchange one more time before running this stuff in for edits?"

Newsie glanced at his watch. "All right," he agreed gruffly, then noticed a group of rats carrying signs. "Wait…that's new. Do rats invest in the market? Why would they be out here?"

Rhonda sighed. "Well this rat is here because her supposedly star reporter insists on asking every single schmoe what he thinks of the whole thing! Newsie! We're hungry already! We can come back after, okay?"

Newsie watched the rats as they marched in a small circle, each carrying a tiny picket sign, though he couldn't read what they said from here. "Rhonda…it's lunchtime, right?"

"Oh my frog! Do you need a hearing aid?"

Giving her a brief scowl, he pointed out what she'd missed: "Rats love to eat. It's lunchtime. Why are those rats more intent on protesting than stealing from the street vendors?"

Rhonda opened her jaw, stopped, thought, shut it. She snapped at the camerasloth, "Come on, Tommy. We'll go eat in just a sec, okay?" The trio headed over to the marching rats.

"Heck, no! We won't go! Heck, no! We won't go!" the rats chanted as they tromped in a circle, largely ignored by the other protesters and passersby.

"Uh, excuse me, what are you demonstrating against?" Newsie asked.

A nervous-seeming rat stepped forward to answer him; the sloth had some difficulty keeping him in focus as he shifted from paw to paw. "Our home's been taken away from us!"

"Oh…you were caught up in the real estate foreclosures by the banks?"

"What? No!" The rat pointed a shaking finger at a nearby storm drain. "Dere's t'ings in da sewers! We can't go back down dere until da aut'orities roust 'em out!"

"City Hall hates rats!" another rat yelled.

"Heard that before," Rhonda muttered.

"Er…I see. What sort of things exactly?" Newsie asked, intrigued.

"I…uh…I can't say," the rat mumbled, suddenly rejoining the tiny picket line. Newsie persisted, falling in step with the rodent.

"Were you evicted from the sewers? Is this a gang thing? Or…or have you seen unspeakable slimy things crawling through the ooze down there?" Newsie asked, growing anxious.

The rat stared straight ahead, chanting along with his fellows. "What exactly drove you out of your home, and what do you want the authorities to do about it?" Newsie continued, easily keeping up with the rat though the rodent tried to sidestep him.

"Look, pal, it ain't any of your business, so why doncha stick yer big nose someplace else?" another rat complained.

Newsie stopped, perplexed. "But…you're out here protesting publicly! Don't you want people to know why?"

"Honestly, mac, we just wanted ta blend in and get some chow," the second rat said.

"Plus, dose t'ings would chow on us if we told ya," another muttered.

Newsie quickly put the mike in front of that one. "Things? What things?"

"I didn't say nuttin'!" the rat squeaked, frightened. "Murray! The press is harassin' me!"

A burly rat with shaggy fur who stood as tall as Newsie's chest got in his way. "You messin' wit' my girl, CNN?"

"Er…KRAK," the Newsman corrected.

"Whatevuh. We don't wanna talk to youse. So scram!"

Deciding the long yellow teeth were a good enough reason to back away, the Newsman retreated to a bench where a couple in suits sat chatting over their bagged lunches. The grey-suited woman gave him a quizzical glance.

"Um, Parker? Isn't this the designated capitalist side of the street today?"

"What?" The blue-suited man turned to look at Newsie; he blinked up at them, baffled. The man turned to his companion dismissively. "Oh, it's all right, Chandra. He's wearing a tie. He's on our side."

"Oh, good. I wasn't sure, with that…er…fuzz."

"Press," Newsie muttered, digging out his laminated NYC press badge. "Uh…how do you two feel about the protests going on?"

The woman looked at her friend. "Parker? Do we want to talk to the press?"

"Are you with Fox News?" the man asked eagerly.

"Er…no. The Muppet Newsman, KRAK. How do you view the—"

"Muppets!" the woman laughed derisively.

"Come on, our lunch-ten is almost up anyway," the man sighed, and the two of them abruptly left. Newsie stood there, feeling confused and insulted, but Rhonda poked him in the ribs.

"Forget them, Captain Impartiality. Let's go take an expenses-paid leisurely lunch the likes a'which those corporate slaves can only dream about! Now call your beautifully non-felted chickie and let's go hobnob at Delmonico's. If you call it an exclusive interview the station'll pay!"

"Rhonda…that's cheating," he grumbled. He rummaged through his pockets, then grew embarrassed. "Uh…besides…I forgot my phone…"

"Of course you did. Allow me." Rhonda whipped out her cell and punched a number from the speed-dial list. "Françoise, sweetie! Do you have a table for four? Something by the window? Wonderful! See you in ten minutes!" She shut the phone, and grinned at her scowling reporter. "I keep telling you, Goldie: it's who ya know, not what ya do. Now come on. I am dying for a porterhouse bone to gnaw on!"

***

Slicking his still-damp hair into place, Snookie walked into the largest of the underground complex's many studios. He wrinkled his nose; the cleaning crew still hadn't quite removed the smell after the last of the auditions. Good grief, what IS that, burnt fur? I don't WANT to know… After surviving his own unfortunate adventure in creative cuisine, he really had no curiosity for exploring the source of other smells around here. The only upside to having to clean up and do a late sit-down with some new reality-show schmuck whom the monsters wanted to make into their new star was that he'd been relieved of further cooking-contest obligations. Carl hadn't been at all pleased when told that the head honcho had decreed this new daredevil show would supersede any monster-only shows.

"A month? I have to wait a month before I can dish you up to the 'Sewer's Kitchen' judge?" Carl had snarled at Snookie a few minutes ago. "I wanted to go outside! This is all your fault, and don't think I'm gonna forget it!"

"I didn't do anything!" Snookie argued. "You heard them – this is an order from the boss! Nothing either of us can do about it!"

"Oh, there's something I can do," Carl the Big Mean Perfectionist growled low, leaning over the nervous host. "I got a lot of taste-testing to do still!"

"Heh, heh, can you not drool on my jacket? I just got it back from drycleaning," Snookie said, easing out of bite range. "Gotta run!"

"I know where you sleep, Snookums!" the monster had shouted after him.

Trying to compose himself now, Snookie peered around the nearly-deserted stage area, unsure whom he was supposed to be interviewing. A rounded grey beak of a nose jutted into his face, startling him. "Hey! Where haff you been? I asked far more café au lait over one hour ago! Zees is intolerableness!"

"Heh, heh, I think you've got me confused with someone else, buddy! I'm Snookie Blyer, and I'll be hosting this—"

"I do not confuse anyzing!" the creature shouted, waving his twisted cane wildly overhead; Snookie ducked out of the way quickly. "Do you zink I became zee deerector because I was confused? No! Now go get me mah coffee!"

Snookie tiptoed around the director as he continued to rant at the air. One of the camerafrackles saw him and wearily powered up his equipment; another trudged over to clip a mic to his coat lapel. "Where's the guy I'm supposed to be talking to?" Snookie asked, and they pointed out a short blue Muppet with a strangely crooked nose in pink spangled Spandex, chained to a table by one wrist. The Muppet's eyes brightened as Snookie walked over.

"Hey, finally! Oh, cool, you're Snookie Blyer! I remember you from 'Name That Fruit: Extreme Muppet Edition'!" the odd-looking creature spoke up, his voice scratchy but enthusiastic.

Snookie gamely put on his best oh-how-nice-a-fan smile. "That's right, I am! So, look…I know your stunt thing was earlier, but we'd like to film this as though you just came offstage after it, okay? It'll be more exciting that way when it airs tomorrow."

"Uh…but I'm still on the stage."

"Don't worry. They're going to put some explosions behind you in post, or something. So!" Snookie grinned for the camera as the techies moved in to start filming. He glanced at the cue card the producers had grudgingly given him. "Well, Mr the Great! That was an astounding spectacle! You've earned yourself a spot in the competition! Tell us how you feel right now!"

"You can call me Gonzo, Snookie," the creature replied. "And right now I just feel kinda hungry…"

"Hungry for stardom, I'll bet! Ha ha! So Gonzo. That was an amazing audition piece – what do you plan to do to follow it up for the first actual competition show?"

"Well," Gonzo said, warming to the discussion, "I have a lot of things planned, Snookie! I've thought about juggling chainsaws with live grenades, you know, alternating them before the trigger goes off; or I might –"

"That's absolutely wonderful!" Snookie cried, nodding to the absent audience which he knew would be sound-tracked in as though this were all live before an actual crowd of cheering fans. "I know you have some tough competition, though! What do you think your chances really are?"

"Uh, well…I'm not sure who's still competing. I mean, that last guy did okay up until he tripped over his clown boots and fell into the boiling—"

"Well, I know you're bound to surprise us, Gonzo! Good luck moving forward, and hey everyone, be sure to tune in tomorrow night to see our very first daredevil competition live here on MMN! 'Til then, this is Snookie Blyer saying – we hope they all break a leg! Good night!" When the bright studio lights shut down again and the camera turned off, Snookie's shoulders dropped and he abandoned his wide smile. "Well, nice knowing you. Enjoy the first-class accomodations." He unclipped his mic and tossed it to the soundfrackle, looking around for his escort back to his cell. "Hey, is there any swill left? I missed dinner! Can I get a crumb or a bone or something at least?"

Unhappily, he strode from the room, yanking out his hankie to try and clear his nose of the lingering stink of Carl. Cooking shows, stunt shows, reality TV…frog, all I want is a good night's sleep and some real food! Can't I at least have that? Is that really too much to ask if I'm in such demand around here? Dark thoughts swarming around him like a cloud of choking gnats, Snookie stalked along the corridors with a monster pacing behind him all the way to his dank cell; he was disgruntled enough to whirl on it once, snapping, "Could you at least not breathe on me? You smell like toasted rat!"

"It was Creole-blackened," the monster protested meekly, trailing the show host, worrying its claws together and reminding itself it wasn't permitted to bite him.

In the studio, another monster with pink eyeballs and a mane of feathers gestured to Gonzo. "Rabba frabba. Bagga boo!"

Gonzo looked at the manacle chaining his left wrist to the table. "Uh…did you bring the key?"

"Bagga!" the monster groaned, slapping a paw to its forehead. At least, Gonzo was pretty sure that bumpy surface was what served it as a forehead. It turned to another monster, a giant birdlike thing with a toothy beak. "Ma gabba frabba zabba!" It complained to the bird-thing.

"Fraw!" the bird-thing replied, patting its sides with clawed wings as if searching pockets. It shook its head. "Caw! Baw naw!"

Gonzo slid his hand out of the cuff easily. "Eh, it's okay. So, do I get my own room, or do I have to share with the other contestants? 'Cause I'd really prefer they not have the chance to steal my ideas…" The monsters looked at one another, startled, but Gonzo, oblivious, picked up his trunk and headed for the door. "Can I get one of those little mints on my pillow? But not regular mint. I like the marshmallow-chocolate-haggis ones. Can you put that in my contract? Haggis mints only, okay?" He beamed at the feather-maned thing as it tried to keep up with him along the corridor. "This is so great! Boy, I can't wait to see the actual competition! Hey, when does this air? I gotta call my girlfriend…" he sighed. "Well, okay, so she's not really my girlfriend anymore, but I'm hoping she'll see what she's been missing, you know? Hey, do you have a girlfriend?"

The monster shook its head sheepishly. "Bagabba boo frabba." It sighed deeply, exhaling fiery breath which singed the back of Gonzo's trunk as they walked, and shrugged. "Gamabba frob, magga?"

"…And can't live without 'em," Gonzo finished, smiling. The monster coughed out a raspy laugh, and clapped the shorter Whatever on the shoulder as they headed for the cell block.

***

The dim light drew her to the living room. "Newsie?" Gina called softly. As she came through the squared archways into the comfortable front room, she found his laptop still on, the glow from the screen just enough illumination for her to see the compact form curled on the sofa. "Newsie?"

He didn't answer; coming closer, Gina realized her exhausted Muppet had fallen asleep still trying to do research. She smiled at his nose half-buried in the soft throw pillow, then turned the laptop around on the coffee table to view the screen. An open document he'd created was titled "Disappearances and Unexplained Events in Sewers;" the multitude of open browser windows piled on the desktop of the little PowerBook all seemed to be reports or allegations or tabloid articles concerning people hearing things belowground in the city over the past year. Two articles simply stated that a ConEd worker and a homeless person had been reported as missing by various associates who claimed the people had gone into the sewers and not returned. Shaking her head, Gina carefully saved every one of the open programs and shut down the laptop. Gently, she stroked Newsie's soft hair.

"Hey, cutie?"

"Mmm?" he mumbled, eyes remaining closed.

"You coming back to bed?"

"Mmm hmmm," Newsie sighed. Gina waited. He shifted around, turning his head so that his nose was plunged even deeper into the squishy pillow, and relaxed once more. In a few seconds he was snoring. Gina gazed at him a long while, considering the notion of snapping a photo of him like that.

In the end, she took his glasses off, snuggled herself in behind and around his shorter frame, and pulled a plush throw blanket over them both. When her arms went around him, he sighed happily again, and his snoring ceased…fortunately for Gina.

Much as she loved him, she'd discovered there was nothing quite as sleep-disturbing as snoring from a guy with eight-inch sinuses.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT. _In which Newsie is a newsie; Camilla worries about Gonzo and Gonzo fears nothing; Dr Honeydew meets an old friend, and Beaker meets a giant carnivorous spider._

Kermit scanned the list of acts for the night, doing his best to ignore the chaos behind and around him with the curtain set to open in ten minutes.

"Hey, has anybody seen the galoshes for my rubber chicken?"

"Boss, the band is refusing to play the Barry Manilow song for the intermezzo piece; they want to substitute a jazz version of Metallica's 'Enter Sandman' instead…"

"—and stay away from my feather boa rack, you mutt! Those are not de-boned chew toys!" (slam!)

"Horn der sween du bork du zuppa!"

"Gobble-obble-obble!"

Kermit looked up briefly, noted that Muppy had escaped from Piggy's dressing room more or less unkicked; Fozzie had enlisted Beau's help in searching for the rubber chicken's rubber rainboots; the penguins were enthusiastically tossing sandbags to persuade Scooter to allow the musical change by the band while Floyd and Dr Teeth waited, chortling; and the turkey fleeing for its neck from the Chef did not, in fact, appear contagious. Just another Friday night. Hunching over his desk, he sighed and massaged his temples briefly. "Scooter!" he yelled, and within seconds his trusty second materialized at his elbow.

"Yeah, Chief? What do you want me to tell the band?"

Kermit waved a flipper absently. "Whatever, as long as it doesn't mean a scenery change from what we already had for the song! Have you seen Gonzo? He's supposed to be singing in the opening number!"

"Uh, remember Gonzo told us about that reality show he was auditioning for?" Scooter reminded Kermit, and gave a discreet thumbs-up to the band; Floyd and Dr Teeth grinned at one another and laid some felt on the penguins with jive handshakes.

Kermit scrunched his face a moment. "Well, can you find out when he intends to rejoin us, if not tonight? Who'm I going to put in his place?" Frustrated, he flipped through the various papers on his desk; the night's sign-in roster was in here somewhere, he was almost positive…

"Hmm," Scooter mused, quickly glancing over the exact sheet Kermit was looking for. "That song really needs a bass to round it out…what if Fozzie and I took the back-up parts, and the Newsman takes lead?"

"What?" Kermit stared at his theatrical lieutenant as if the younger Muppet had just said Why NOT let the aliens suck our brains out through a straw? The frog's brain took a precious few seconds to find where exactly the gear was which had slipped and start the wheels rolling again. "He can sing?"

"Better than you'd think," Scooter nodded. "I, uh, overheard him in his dressing-room earlier this week. He knows the words."

"If you think it'll work," Kermit said, shrugging. "Sheesh." He met Scooter's amused gaze, and broke into a chuckle. "I guess domestic life agrees with all of us former bachelors."

"No argument here," Scooter grinned, and ran to find the Newsman.

Camilla was only vaguely listening to, and barely participating in, a discussion among the chorus girls, pigs, and chickens about what they wanted to dress up as for Fozzie's Halloween party. She blinked slowly at her image in the ladies' dressing-room mirror, patted the glittery earrings clipped to her feathers to make sure they wouldn't come loose while she was dancing, and sighed. Gonzo hadn't shown up again tonight; she hoped that meant his audition had gone well. She'd checked her voicemail twice already. Nothing…not a peep from her estranged performance artiste.

Not that she was worried. He could handle himself. Why, he did outrageously dangerous, ridiculous, slim-chance-of-surviving-without-at-least-losing-a-limb acts all the time here…as much as Kermit would allow, anyway…

Camilla dug her purse from her locker and checked her phone just once more.

The Newsman blinked at Scooter several times, one hand clinging to the doorframe of his tiny closet of a dressing-room. "You want…me…opening…sing?" he gulped.

Scooter grinned. "Careful, you're starting to sound like a monster with that grammar! Come on, get one of those old fedoras from the costume rack and get up there! It's only a minute to opening!"

Both terrified and elated, Newsie sprang up the stairs, hustling to wardrobe to grab the first dark fedora he could find; luckily he was already clothed in a dark brown gabardine suit tonight. Even more luckily, the suit had been only minimally stained by the result of his earlier Muppet News report at KRAK, when several gallons of fairly hot black tea had rained down on him after he mentioned alleged Antimuppetist comments made by one of the Presidential hopefuls aligned with the Tea Party. His closing remark, that the politician in question "would neither confirm nor deny having made any such comments," seemed somewhat ironic to him while he was wringing the liquid from his coat on-camera.

He skidded to a halt just offstage right, where Scooter and Fozzie were waiting, already in costume as Gilded Age paperboys. As the main theme ended and the curtains opened to respectable applause, Newsie swallowed as much of his fear as he could stomach and hurried onstage.

Scooter ran ahead of him in knickers and a round cap, waving a newspaper at the audience. "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!"

Newsie remembered noticing in the rehearsal earlier in the week that the performers had decided not to do the entire song; he hoped he wouldn't be expected to dance. He'd seen the film often enough to know the choreography by heart…he just didn't believe he could do it. Oh, good grief! There she is! His eyes immediately found Gina in the audience, and saw hers widen in astonishment…but then she smiled, and he gulped again, and took his cue from Fozzie's line: "Dere ain't nothin' exciting enough to sell papers today! Nobody's gonna wanna read this boring stuff!"

Singing slowly and roughly at first, then smoothing out a little as the words all popped into his head, Newsie responded, "We need a good assassin-ation!.. We need an earthquake or a war!"

"How 'bout a crooked politician?" Scooter piped up, playing the minor of the paperboy trio for the song.

Fozzie and Newsie turned on him in scorn: "Hey stupid, THAT ain't news no more!" The audience laughed. Blushing, glancing out into the house again, Newsie saw Gina smiling broadly. She nodded proudly at him, and he swallowed hard and continued solo a couple of lines: "Uptown to Grand Central Station…down to City Hall…we improves the circulation…"

Fozzie and Scooter stepped up to him on either side, linking arms briefly and shouting with him for the next line: "Walkin' til we fall!"

Newsie sang through the chorus and the second verse, more than content to stay mostly center stage and let the other two do some fancy footwork around and in front of him. He'd been a chorus member on rare occasions in the show or in the movies, but he'd never, ever had a prominent piece like this. By the end of the song, the bear and the gofer had forcibly persuaded him to dance in step with them before the music faded, and then one by one they wandered offstage, stacks of papers in their arms, looking dejected. On impulse, Newsie paused at the edge of the stage at the last possible instant, and hopefully offered a paper to a couple in the front row: "Hey, wanna buy a copy? It's an exclusive!"

The curtain dropped to much applause. Flushed, the Newsman barely noticed as the stagepigs jostled him aside, hurrying to move in the scenery for Piggy's ingénue act with Rowlf. He stood alone backstage, panting, dazed until Kermit clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice job!"

"Er…thanks," Newsie gulped. He reluctantly removed the fedora. "I…I guess I should get this back to wardrobe…"

His boss smiled. "You know what? Keep it. It suits you."

"R-really? Thanks!" As Newsie wandered off, still looking winded and astonished, Kermit stopped Scooter, running by on his way to change out of his costume.

"Good call there; I would never have guessed he knew any musical numbers at all!"

Scooter laughed. "Well, I wasn't surprised he knew that one! It's from 'Newsies!'"

Kermit did a double-take, then began snickering. Maybe tonight will be one of the good ones, he thought hopefully.

Then came the sounds of Piggy exclaiming in dismay and growing fury from onstage, followed by bucketfuls of Key limes bouncing all over the place, followed by an angry diva in a green-stained low-cut dress storming off to her dressing-room, followed by the puzzled janitor apologizing to Kermit, explaining he could have sworn the song was "as limes go by…"

"Oh," Beauregard mumbled when told the actual title of the classic tune. "Uh, should I have dropped a bunch of clocks on her instead?"

Sighing, Kermit turned over the stage manager's desk to Fozzie and went to calm down Piggy.

Camilla walked listlessly through the green room, reminding herself to keep her head up; her earrings jingled softly, the delicate feather headdress rising above her red comb floated divinely, and every time she happened to catch her reflection in a mirror she could see she'd put her eyeshadow and mascara on perfectly, but she didn't feel like much of a pro tonight. Nonsense, she thought; it certainly made no difference at all that Gonzo wasn't here to see her. None whatsoever.

Theme music blared out of the little TV Beau had somehow rigged in a corner of the room. Annoyed, Camilla wondered why anyone would have what sounded like a talent show playing right now, when they were all preparing to go onstage themselves. Maybe some of her castmates actually still had so much stage fright that watching total amateurs fumble their way through a performance gave them courage? Shaking her head, she was about to trot upstairs where if there was noise and chaos, at least it was their noise and chaos, not someone else's…when the other chickens all began clucking and crying out.

Gonzo? What? She hurried to the corner and stuck her beak up to the flickering screen. "Baawwwwkk!" she gasped.

Resplendent in the pink jumpsuit Camilla loved, there on the TV a blue Muppet daredevil bounced upon an invisible high wire, juggling wobbling handfuls of tiny jellyfish. An announcer shouted over the music: "And here's the most death-defying version of 'Down by the Sea' we've ever witnessed! I was astounded that anyone remembered the actual words to that old classic anymore!" While an off-screen crowd roared and clapped and held their breaths, Gonzo seemed about to tip into the swaying mass of eels below him, then regained his balance, never pausing in his throwing rhythm. The screen cut to a shot of the judges' panel: two large monsters stared up slack-jawed in admiration. A smaller monster poked his head out of the tan one's mouth, his own tiny jaw open wide as well. "Well, he certainly seems to be impressing the judges! Let's see if he can make it through his entire act – unlike the unfortunate motorcyclist earlier! Some people just aren't cut out for superstardom, I guess, but hey, those are the breaks! This is Snookie Blyer; come back after the break to see if the Great Gonzo makes it onto the show! We'll be right back!" From a brief image of a smiling, yellow-felted Muppet in a bad sports coat, the station changed to a commercial.

"I'm William Conrad for First Alert! Has this ever happened to you? You stash your entire Thanksgiving dinner in the 'fridge and leave just to run down to the liquor store…and then!" A large purple-furred monster with big yellow eyes and ears reminding Camilla of a Mr Potatohead broke into the spokeman's 'fridge and eagerly began gulping down everything inside it. "Don't let ravenous monsters happen to you! With First Alert's new 'Monster Alert' service, any kitchen can go from a gorgon-attracting heap to a safe, secure, sandwich-friendly environment!" Suddenly, an alarm sounded, and lasers fried the purple monster. In an instant, a blackened, smoking pile of ashes with wide yellow eyes blinked astonished at the camera. "Call First Alert right away…smack, slurp…and you too…gobble, gulp…ca' haff uh frish all moo urfelf!" The spokesman waved a turkey leg at the camera, his arms and mouth full of the rescued food.

Impatiently Camilla waited through another two ads and a station logo flash for MMN before the program resumed. "Welcome back to 'Break a Leg,' America's most dangerous talent show, where auditions are going on for the most daring, most original, least safety-conscious performers still alive! Right now, former Muppet Show actor, singer, and all-around daredevil the Great Gonzo is strutting his stuff for our expert panel…or maybe that should be bouncing his stuff! Just take a look at this!" Camilla stared in utter terror as Gonzo, onscreen, began leaping into the air, catching the wire with his toes as he fell, then immediately bouncing back up and flipping himself midair to hook the wire with his nose again…over and over…while still juggling…and singing the last line with enormous gusto: "Aaaand my love and I…we'll…go…saaaaiilling!" When he finished, the jellies plopping onto his head one after another like a series of caps, the host looked to the monsters seated at the long table, which seemed now to be draped with colorful banners.

"Amazing! Well, let's hear from the judges! Hem Sterling! Will the Great Gonzo be making the audition cut?"

The tan-furred monster with the round teeth tapped a wide finger against his lower jaw, thinking, brows furrowed. "Hmm. Well, I think this is really one of the best acts we've seen all night, Snookie, so – yeah! I vote claws up!"

"Fantastic! Now to B.D. Cooper. B.D., will Gonzo be earning your vote for a competition spot as well?"

"Ahhh, I guess so," grumbled the flat-headed blue monster, shrugging. "Frankly, I think he needs better song choices, if he's gonna make singing a part of his act. I really liked the bug guy better."

"Well, Weevil Kneivel was impressive, but he disqualified himself by perishing before completing his stunt!" Snookie laughed. "So let's turn to the last judge, Shakey Sanchez-Campbell! Shakey, were you as awestruck as I was by –" Snookie paused, seeing the tan monster wiping his lips. "Uh, Hem, doesn't Shakey get a vote?"

"Oh, I can speak for him," Hem assured the host.

"Don't count on it!" a muffled high voice came from within Hem's throat. The monster slapped his windpipe and belched.

"He votes claws up," Hem said.

"I don't even have claws!" protested the swallowed creature.

Snookie turned back to the camera, chuckling. "Well, it seems like our judges want to see more of the blue barnstormer's antics! Let's see what Gonzo has to say!"

"Hey chickens! Chickens, you're on!" Scooter yelled.

Reluctantly, Camilla turned from the screen with her fellow dancers, but she looked over her wing as she left the green room, watching Gonzo talking with the loud host. One of the other chickens clucked impatiently at her, and she finally blew out a breath and hurried up to the stage to strut through the "White Feather Rag" which the Mayhem turned from a simple, Joplinesque piece into a full-blown "Nola" orgy of wailing sax and blaring trumpet. Though Camilla knew she and the girls were there for eye candy, she still found it difficult to focus on the steps they'd learned, and twice almost tripped Mitzi Clucker. She knew the girls were wondering what had come over her, but she wasn't willing to bawk about it yet. Not yet. She had too many thoughts cluttering her head, like a granary full of yellow and blue corn all jumbled together…

Fozzie yanked Scooter's jacket sleeve. "Hey, Scooter, look! Isn't dat Gonzo?"

"Huh! Yeah, guess so! Wow, he's really making the big time," Scooter remarked, looking at the TV only a few seconds before he had to corral a handful of odd creatures raptly watching the Chef cooking octopus pancakes on the griddle. Every time he flipped a tentacled flapjack, one of the feathery, red-scaled little creatures would gurble happily and dart forward to catch it and devour it before it hit the hot pan again.

"Heey! Stoppen der chompy-chompen un my ooctocaken!"

"Fazoobs! Fazoobs up next for the Koozebane trick-or-treat number!" Scooter announced.

"Dey ulreddy habben der trick und der treetens!" Chef complained.

Fozzie watched the end of the interview with Gonzo. He saw how the Whatever's eyes lit up when the host asked what other acts he had planned. "Oh, Gonzo," Fozzie muttered. "I guess dis is better for you after all." He started to lift a paw to the screen, but when it cut back to the host saying goodnight, the bear's hand dropped again, dispirited. He heaved a low sigh, and trudged off to find his rubber chicken, now that he'd located the boots for it.

Behind him, Clifford plunked himself down on a beat-up sofa, and glared at the commercials filling the TV screen. "Aw, man, why do we have to put up with this jive nonsense here? Seems like every place you go these days, you get ads thrown at you!" he complained to Rizzo.

"Eh, I know whatcha mean," Rizzo said, and found the remote. He flicked through the channels until he located the Flimsy Negligee Mystery network. "Hey! Dat's 'Panty Death Raid'! I missed da end of dat last time dey showed it!"

"Yo, turn the sound down, bro," Clifford advised, glancing around the now mostly-empty green room. "It's more cultural that way."

"Oh yeah," Rizzo snickered, muting the sound.

Sam the Eagle poked his head around the corner. "What? Did I hear something about actual cultural films being shown?"

"Uh…sure, Baldy," Clifford said, beginning to grin. "Have a seat, take a load off the talons."

"Thank you, that's very kind," Sam muttered, settling himself on the sofa. He frowned at the TV. "Uh…how exactly is this morally enlightening?" he asked, as two girls on the screen engaged in a pillowfight in their underwear while a masked killer crept through the hall past their dorm room.

"Can'tcha see the stars on her panties, and the stripes on da other one's?" Rizzo demanded. "It's, ah, like a metaphor or somethin'…"

"The eternal struggle of war-guilt versus peace-love in our national consciousness," Clifford supplied blithely, and Rizzo stifled a chortle.

"Oh, yes! Yes, I see! Mm. Of course," Sam exclaimed, and watched the silly movie in silence a minute longer. He blinked, startled. "Uh…what does the chocolate pudding represent?"

Rizzo fumbled, at a loss, but Clifford didn't miss a beat. With a savvy nod at Sam, he murmured, "Man, that's the dark side of the collective unconsciousness!... Haven't you ever read Jung?"

***

Beaker scanned the front of the crumbling edifice nervously. So far, the quiet beeps of the mobile psychokinetic energy detector hadn't indicated anything supernatural in the old hotel past the normal background levels common to any large city. However, he was keyed up enough to leap six inches into the air when Bunsen touched his elbow.

"Meeeep!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Beaker! It isn't really haunted, you know!"

"Mee meep?" Beaker wondered, his head swiveling to read a KEEP OUT CONDEMNED BUILDING FORMER MASS MURDER SITE sign posted on the front door as Bunsen pushed it open and trotted right in, oblivious.

"Of course not, you sillyfoam! The organizers just thought it would be more fun to have the walk in an old, spooky building on Halloween! It will surely draw lots of viewers – and lots of sponsors!" Smiling, Honeydew looked around the lobby of the once-grand hotel, now home to massive spiderwebs and peeling wallpaper. "They certainly picked a good site to film in, don't you think?" Beaker shrugged nervously, peering around but sticking close to his lab partner as they moved farther into the room. He jumped again at the slam of the door.

"Mee! Mee mee mee meep mee!" he pointed shakily at the closed door in the darkened lobby. Bunsen shook and snapped a glo-stick into eerie green light and handed it to him.

"Just the wind! Now come on! Let's see where we should set up the command post for the surveillance equipment and the broadcast servers, shall we?" Undaunted by the gloom and the layers of dust, Bunsen snapped a glo-stick of his own and moved around curiously, shining the stick into the high corners of the place; the light didn't travel very far up the curving, unsafe-looking staircase. Shaking his head, Beaker sighed, and slowly walked through the lobby, avoiding the largest webs. A spider dropped abruptly from one of them, and Beaker shrieked, dropping his glo-stick.

Bunsen snapped over his shoulder, "Beaker! Stop scaring the spiders! We'll need them to stick around for the charity walk – they're wonderful window dressing!"

Beaker stared at him, then at the green-furred spider glaring at him. Muttering curses, it climbed back up into its web spanning the entry to the old dining room. Catching his breath, Beaker bent to pick up the glo-stick, and saw footprints in the dust. Some of them had claws and more than four toes, and the tracks seemed to go every which way. One set of prints had been made by small shoes. Perplexed, Beaker looked at the size of the shoeprints, comparing them to his own size nines. Then he set his foot next to one of the clawed, splay-toed tracks, and noticed how much bigger the other tracks were… "Mee! Meep mee mee!"

"Tracks? Well, I certainly wouldn't be surprised if this old hotel had a few nonpaying rodent guests still hanging around – tsst, tsst! Not to worry, Beakie; all part of the spoooooky atmosphere!" Honeydew proclaimed, wiggling his fingers in the air before Beaker's nose. Beaker tried to draw Bunsen's attention to the prints in the thick dust, but the scientist pointed at the crumbling staircase. "Let's go upstairs and see if there's a room available which will hold all our equipment, shall we? Go on, Beaker! Make sure the stairs will hold the weight of the network servers!"

Reluctantly, Beaker placed a foot on the bottom step of the formerly-elegant wooden staircase. It creaked terribly, but held. Carefully grabbing hold of the railing, then muttering under his breath and wiping his cobweb-coated fingers on his orange windbreaker, Beaker advanced up the stairs. Although they groaned and shifted worrisomely, he reached the first landing without incident. Turning to call back to Bunsen, he gestured up, about to inform his colleague of the rather large and sticky web right ahead of him blocking further progress. "Meep meep—"

The landing completely collapsed with a sickening crunch. Squealing, Beaker windmilled his arms and grabbed hold of the banister, which prevented his fall. Panting, he wiped the dust from his forehead and leaned to peer into the hole. The banister creaked loudly and suddenly fell in the opposite direction, taking a startled Beaker with it. Approaching his partner, Honeydew shook his head, frowning. "Beaker! Don't you know this is an historic landmark? Chinese gangsters used to have wars over their opium trade in the street right outside! There's a secret tunnel that used to be used for smuggling under the building! We were only granted access because of the charity cause, so don't go around destroying any more architectural artifacts!"

Coughing, covered in dust and dustier spiderwebs, Beaker tried to pick himself off the floor next to the stairs. Eight yellow eyes blinked down at him just behind him as an enormous shadow rose out of the darkness behind the staircase.

"I thought I heard company!" Phil Van Neuter exclaimed, bobbing out of the dining room and throwing his arms wide for Bunsen. "Bunnie! So glad you could make it!"

"Oh, Dr Van Neuter! Yes, we're here! Beaker, you remember our biologist comrade, don't you?" Sighing, Beaker halfheartedly waved, still brushing grey plaster from his jacket. A shifting, scratching sound right behind him made him freeze.

"I keep telling you, just Phil, please! We're all mad scientists here!" Van Neuter chuckled, warmly embracing a somewhat discomfited Bunsen Honeydew. "So! What technological wonders did you bring us?"

"Oh, well, Beaker and I have been working on a supradermal tracking system, which works on the principle that frightened people tend to put out more heat." Bunsen fished a prototype tracker out of a pocket; it appeared to be a tiny metal and plastic spider. "We'll issue one of these to every participant, and when your 'haunted house' really gets cracking, voila! Body heat goes up, and the actual fear levels can be tracked in realtime by our custom-designed software and, by use of our specially configured servers, streamed live to the walk's sponsors and the entire webcast audience!"

Beaker turned around slowly, shaking, to see a spider taller and fatter by far than Sweetums rising up on eight thick furry legs, disturbed by the crash of the stair-landing and clearly not at all happy. "Mee…meep?" Beaker asked it timidly. It leaned over, opening jaws full of slavering fangs, breathing a foul air down in his face. Beaker gulped, and offered it his glo-stick with trembling fingers. "Muh…meep?"

"Oh, that sounds positively spiffy, Bunnie! How soon can you have it in place for a test run?" Van Neuter asked eagerly, dancing in place with excitement.

Beaker screamed, fleeing through the lobby into the decrepit dining room, the giant spider lolloping along the ceiling after him, snarling and spitting, claws scrabbling loudly along the damaged woodwork.

"Well, as soon as we can get our equipment set up – Beaker! That china cabinet is probably an antique!"

CRASH. CRUNCH. Tinkle tink.

"Meeeeeeeee!"

"Oh, of course! Why don't you two set up in the old manager's office? It should be big enough for all that, and there's a little less dust," Van Neuter offered, showing Bunsen the papered-over panel hiding the door to the old office. "See? It's already kind of hidden, so you should be able to monitor the walk from in there without anyone disturbing you!"

"Oh, yes! This should be more than adequate!" Bunsen beamed, looking into the office; a roost of sleepy bats began blinking at him from the low-ceiling rafters. Beaker ran shrieking past them, the monstrous spider bounding after him, taking swipes with its forelegs which Beaker ducked by yanking his head into his collar. Bunsen shook his head and planted his fists on his waist. "Honestly, Beaker! Save that silliness for Halloween night! We have work to do!"

"Well, have to get back to my own preparations, but it's so nice working with you again! Toodles!" Van Neuter chirped, waving happily before trotting back behind the staircase. He almost tripped over Thatch McGurk, who'd been eavesdropping. "What are you doing up here? Get back downstairs!" Van Neuter snapped crossly.

"Garabba frazza buh!" the monster said, gesturing over at Bunsen, who was rummaging in his coat pockets for something.

"They're supposed to be here! Didn't you read the last memo? Oh, honestly, you're the worst receptionist I've ever had, and that is saying a lot! Now get back down there and let them work in peace!" Grumbling, McGurk trudged belowstairs. Shaking his head, Van Neuter followed. "Isn't it just like Mulch to win the lottery and take off for Jamaica right when I need a professional flunky! Honestly!" He sniffled briefly. "And…and Composta at least could have stayed with me for the holiday instead of insisting on taking cliffdiving lessons in the Shetland Islands…"

McGurk patted his arm sympathetically. "Awwwr. Bagaagga zab."

Jerking away huffily, Van Neuter snapped, "No I do not need a fluffy stinkbug! I gave up sleeping with stuffies when I was twenty! Uh…now…now you just get back to work, and don't let me hear any more nonsense about intruders!"

"Huhf!" McGurk snorted, turned his back, and stomped through the underground corridor. It was nearly time for second suppers, anyway.

"Aha! Found it!" Bunsen exclaimed. When Beaker came ducking and hurtling through the lobby once more, Bunsen sprayed him and the spider both in day-glo orange sticky string.

"Meeep!" Beaker cried, tripping as his limbs became entangled in the fast-hardening string. The spider halted as though poleaxed, blinked at the orange strands lacing its face, shook its head, sneezed, and disgustedly retreated to the top of the stairs, where it cast a sulky look back at them before melting into the shadows. Bunsen sighed.

"If you're done playing around, would you go fetch the server racks?" He turned away, not noticing Beaker's struggles to stand upright with the cocoon of silly string wrapped completely around him. "Now, I think we should be able to receive the tracker signals all over the hotel from this room…it seems to have a vent going up through the ceiling, which should facilitate the satellite bounce…"

Beaker stumbled into the cleverly hidden office, straining to pull the string off his arms and hands. He stumbled right into the nest of bats just as Bunsen turned away, musing thoughtfully at the staircase: "And perhaps we ought to mount a signal booster at the far end of the third- or fourth-floor hall, just to make absolutely certain the signals are free and unencumbered!"

The bats squeaked and fluttered, Beaker screamed, several of them snagged in the sticky string in Beaker's upstanding hair and tried to tug themselves loose by flapping wildly, and when he staggered half-blind around the room and accidentally tripped into the old fireplace with its cracked air-flue, the panicked bats tried to pull him up it with them. "Meee! Meeeeeeeee!"

Honeydew turned around to find his assistant halfway up the rusted flue, his skinny legs kicking, hands braced against the bottom edge of the flue, head stuck inside so that his cries echoed and shook down dust. "Beaker! Those bats are a protected species! Leave them alone and come help me with the server racks! You know I can't carry them myself!"


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE. _In which Newsie is happy to be domesticated, but Aunt Ethel is unwell. Also, Yipyips._

Saturday morning, Gina was up before her Newsman, peering at her laptop with a mug of coffee in hand, going over her painted mock-ups of the lighting design for "The Homecoming." Although she loved having the opportunity to design both set and lights, it was a lot of brainwork; she'd do her best to keep it from being a lot of gruntwork, too. She'd submitted her scenic ideas a couple of weeks ago, and the director had readily approved it since it would largely use platforms and flats the theatre already had in stock; all that would need doing would be some wallpapering and set dressing, and the set itself could be easily assembled in a day or two at most, once the current productions of puppet slams alternating with concerts ended. Rubbing a hand across her tired eyes, she sat back and drank more coffee, trying to rouse herself fully.

A bleary-eyed, sans-glasses, ruffled-hair Muppet shuffled into the kitchen and wavered on his feet, trying to orient on her. He looked so sleepily baffled that Gina laughed, and pulled him in for a kiss. "Hey there handsome! You, uh, forget something?"

Newsie squinted at her, confused, not fully awake. "Uh…did I?"

Gina stroked a finger down his nose from dark furry brows to sharp, pointed tip. "Could be. I see you remembered to put on your robe and slippers, though."

"It was chilly," Newsie muttered, still puzzled. He leaned closer, unable to make out her features clearly. "You're all blurry. What time is it?"

Gina giggled, sat him in the other chair, and shortly had fresh pumpkin coffee steaming in his Halloween mug in front of him. Gratefully Newsie sipped it, relaxing. He noticed her doing something with her computer on the kitchen table. "Er…checking email so early?"

"No, cutie. Today's my production meeting, remember? I have to present the lighting design to Dr Rob! I'm just making sure all the renderings look clear enough. He's a decent director but…um…not very visually-oriented, so I have to make sure my ideas are obvious."

"Ah," Newsie said, nodding. "Tailor your work to your audience."

"You got it. Want breakfast?"

"You're busy," he protested, staggering to his feet. "I'll fix it. Uh…" He peered uncertainly at the dishwasher. "Did we move the granola?"

"Aloysius…"

"Yes?"

"Put your glasses on."

She softened his embarrassment when he returned to the kitchen, able to see finally, by wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and kissing his nose. He fixed one of her autumn specialties she'd taught him, ginger granola mixed with apple cobbler yogurt all warmed up, and brought her a large bowlful, settling into his own place with a smaller helping. She rewarded him with another kiss, finally coaxing a smile out of him. "You going to the happy home today?" she asked in between spoonfuls.

Newsie nodded. "I should return Aunt Ethel's scrapbook. I finished scanning all the articles."

"Looks nice out there. Why don't you see if you can push her around the garden?"

"That's a good idea." Newsie beamed at his girl. "I love you."

Gina paused in her perusing of the art on her screen to give him a deep kiss. "And I you, my devoted journalist. Would you rather meet up for lunch or dinner? I think I'm going to wear the skull outfit, if that influences your decision." She grinned at his discomfited expression; his own tastes were so naturally old-fashioned that she'd learned to warn him if she planned to appear at all outré.

"Er…the skulls? Is that…really appropriate for a meeting about a Thanksgiving show?"

Gina laughed. "It's Pinter. Twisted is entirely appropriate." She gave him a wicked smile. "You haven't read the script yet!"

Newsie shifted around on his chair. "Er…uh…I assumed it had something to do with college athletics…"

It took Gina several minutes to catch her breath after that; meanwhile her poor Muppet blinked at her in total incomprehension. "Do you know how much I adore you?" she asked finally, wiping the tears of hilarity from her eyes.

"Uhm," Newsie mumbled, still unsure what to make of her reaction.

"Read the play. Trust me, it is not a warm happy fuzzy, and there will be no cheerleaders or jocks in it anywhere." She kissed him once more, then stood. "I need to go get ready. Feel like helping me wash?"

He certainly wasn't going to object.

Later, Gina returned to the bathroom to use its better lighting for aid in hooking her dangling silver skeleton earrings in properly, and found Newsie with a foamy toothbrush, diligently scrubbing. She smiled at him, but didn't comment; he'd verbally ducked and sidestepped every time she'd prodded him about the fact he didn't actually have teeth to brush…or stubble to shave, for that matter. She was just happy to see the fuzz back on his face finally: a month ago, fresh from a shower and without his glasses, he'd mistaken her bikini cream for sunscreen, and for a while afterward had been forced to live with extra-shiny-smooth felt across his nose and cheeks.

Mouth rinsed and dabbed dry, he watched her fuss with her jewelry and hair, doing his best not to appear uncomfortable with her outfit today: a black crepe skirt above black hose with tiny skulls like polka-dots all over, low boots with silver buckles in various impractical places, a long black cardigan wrapped over a satin chemise, a scarf matching the hose tying up her startlingly red hair, the earrings, and a more colorful, enameled Day of the Dead skull pendant dangling grinning from her neck. "Um…given any thought as to what you'll wear to Fozzie's Halloween party?" Newsie asked hesitantly; if it was only the fifteenth and she was draped in this stuff, what might she do for the actual holiday?

"I was thinking I could be a medieval falconer, and you could go as my hawk," Gina teased, saw him grimace, and laughed. "Kidding! I don't know yet. What about you?"

"Er…me? In costume?"

"Did I mishear? I thought you said it was a costume party."

"Oh. Uh…yes." Outside of the very, very occasionally nontraditional garb he'd donned for the Muppet Show (the "Robin Hood" show immediately, and uncomfortably, sprang to mind), Newsie didn't do costumes. Gina stroked his cheek fondly.

"What about when you were a kid? Didn't you go trick-or-treating?"

He couldn't meet her gaze. "Er…no. Mother wouldn't allow it. She thought it was immoral to beg for candy. I, uh…I did go with her to a costume party once at the DAR…"

"Oooh, bet that was thrilling," Gina quipped. "What did you go as?"

Now why had he even mentioned that? A mental image of himself in that scratchy, wooly lamb get-up, while his mother paraded around as Little Bo-Peep, made him turn bright crimson. "Uh. Um. I –I don't recall. It was a long time ago. Do we have to be in full costume? Couldn't we just put on masks?"

"You'd have a hard time seeing without your glasses…and I don't know of too many commedia del'arte masks that include spectacles," Gina pointed out, biting her lip to keep from smiling. "Look, why don't we go shopping together Monday night, as soon as your news gig is over? We can see what's available and pick something out, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed at once, relieved. He pulled her down for a kiss. "Good luck at your production meeting!"

"And you have a good time with your aunt," she replied, hugging him tight. "Mmm. So…lunch or dinner?"

He drew back, studying her clothing. "Uh…what if we met for dinner at that tavern you like?"

"Scarth's Chemistry Pub? Sure! I thought it was too noisy for you there."

"Well, that may have been due to the grad students last time. I'm willing to give it another shot." He'd liked the food at the casual tavern, but a raucous group of students doing something with acid titrations and beer bongs over in a corner had been a little too much chaos for him to put up with during dinner. He smiled at Gina, and she gave him a deeper kiss.

"Bravo, you! Seven o'clock, after your news? Will you try the 'KOH Sammich' this time? It'd go good with their pumpkin ale, and that's in season now."

"I'll try," he promised. When she left the apartment without her cylindrical case of drafted drawings, he hurried after to hand it to her before the elevator closed. The smile, blown kiss, and playful wave she gave him promised him an excellent reward later for his thoughtfulness, and it was with a cheerful heart that Newsie buttoned his coat and headed out himself a few minutes later.

The weather proved brisk and clear enough for him to walk a few blocks to the Times Square station. He stayed on the edge of the crowd of demonstrators, not wanting to be jostled; all too often, people failed to notice him, short as he was, and he didn't want anything to get spilled on his new autumn overcoat. He felt in too good a mood…a state which still seemed alien enough to him to want to savor thoroughly. He purchased a paper cup of hot cider from a vendor obviously supporting the occupiers, and waved off his change, pointing instead to the donation box, but felt a little too embarrassed to return the young man's "Dude, right on!" or fistbump. Walking slowly along the sidewalk, he read some of the cardboard signs lined up for blocks, his thoughts turning to the accusations that girl with MADL had thrown at him. Of course I'm for equal rights…for everyone, Muppet or not! I'm just not a commentator. I'm a journalist. The two should never mix. He wondered if Muppets really were being discriminated against, as the activists claimed. Well, there was something involving the ACLU when the station hired me back…maybe that's worth a look. He wanted first, however, to get to the bottom of these alleged underground disappearances and vague claims of monsters. THAT is a pressing concern, if it's true! The public needs to be warned, if horrible hungry Things are moving in right under our feet! Uneasily he glanced into a black storm drain as he passed it, and unconsciously edged away with each step. He still hadn't been able to locate the two ConEd workers who'd filed a police report claiming to have seen something down there…they hadn't shown up for work in days. Maybe…maybe he could ask to see where they were working? Would the city, or ConEd, or whomever had the right to those particular tunnels grant him permission to go look for himself? He shivered, and drank more of the cinnamon-warm cider. That might be the only way to find out…

He doubted Rhonda would come with him. Whom else could he recruit? He really, really didn't like the idea of going down there…alone…

The train to Queens wasn't too crowded, the morning commute already passed, and he trotted up the long drive to the asylum with legs that felt sprightly. Gina had him eating healthy and going on walks with her often, and though he hadn't quite dared to try her Wii Fit routine alongside her yet (convinced he would appear foolish if he attempted some of those yoga poses), he could tell he was in better shape than ever. Healthy foam, healthy mind, he told himself, pleased with the entire day already. He stopped at the main desk, waiting for the receptionist to return so he could sign in and see Aunt Ethel, his gaze turning to the beautiful garden in red and yellow flowers right outside, buoyed by the notion of taking his aunt for a leisurely stroll there. Even in a wheelchair, she would surely enjoy the colors and the wonderful scent of the autumn air. He beamed at the uniformed lady who finally came to see what he wanted at the desk. "Hi! Aloysius Crimp, to see Ethel Muppman, please."

The receptionist checked through her record log, and looked up with a sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, sir. Mrs Muppman isn't here."

"She—what?"

"Are you family?"

"Yes, I'm her nephew! Why isn't she here?" His aunt, he knew, had been deemed too dangerous to herself to be allowed on the monthly field trips some other patients enjoyed. It saddened him, but he understood the reasoning. "She left the home?"

"Er…yes. She's at Blucher Memorial, just up the road. She fell, and sustained some injuries…"

Angrily, Newsie sputtered, "What? When? Why wasn't I informed? How badly was she injured?"

The somber woman checked her notes again. "Two days ago. Um…it does say we called you then, and I see here a note that you asked at that time to be informed by the hospital if anything changed…"

"Nobody called me," Newsie exclaimed, incredulous. "Nobody spoke to me! This is the first I've heard about it!"

"We had instructions to notify her nephew Aloysius if anything like this happened," the woman said sharply. "We did so. Can I see some ID, sir?"

Furious, confused, the Newsman set aside the scrapbook long enough to dig every form of ID he had out of his wallet; most of them, unfortunately, simply had "The Newsman" printed for his name, since he'd changed it decades ago from what his mother had named him at birth. At last he showed her his Muppet Security card, and she seemed convinced. "Well, I'm sorry, Mr Crimp, but it does show that we did contact you when she went into the hospital! Could someone else at your residence have—"

"No," he growled. Gina would never have failed to inform him of something so important! "How badly is she hurt?"

"Well, she may have hit her head; we're not sure. She's been mostly unresponsive, the hospital said. The doctors—"

Newsie didn't wait. Upset and angry, he strode out of the building, breaking into a jog as he headed directly up the road in the direction the receptionist had indicated. His aunt was supposed to have an attendant of some kind with her around the clock! Had the asylum's negligence led to her falling? He burst into the lobby of the sedate hospital, still clutching the scrapbook. "Ethel Muppman! What room?"

"Are you family?" the nurse behind the desk asked, scowling.

A few outraged, worried minutes later, he finally stood beside his aunt's bed, clasping her worn gray fingers between his own, staring down at her in concern. "Aunt Ethel? Auntie, it's me, Aloysius!"

Her eyes were slightly open, but they tracked right past him, unfocused. Newsie glared up at the doctor. "How much morphine is she on?" he demanded. "How bad are her injuries?"

The doctor shook his head gently. "A very low dose. She's been like this since we revived her. Sometimes this happens…very frequently, a fall is the beginning of a downward slide, at this age."

"Revived her?" Newsie was aghast.

"She was experiencing arrhythmia when they brought her in, and her heart did stop briefly while we were trying to stabilize her. She had to be shocked back into a normal rhythm. We've done a CAT scan, but what with her already advanced dementia, it's a little hard to tell how much damage the fall actually did to her brain."

Newsie sank into a chair next to the railed bed. "She might go on for months yet," the doctor told him. "We've immobilized her shoulder and her left wrist, but the breakage seems minor. Unfortunately there's no way to predict whether she'll regain much awareness."

The Newsman blinked back imminent tears. So, for all purposes, Ethel may simply already be…gone. Here, but gone. Trying to master his voice, he asked roughly, "How did this happen? She was supposed to have someone with her!"

The doctor shook his head again. "You'll have to talk to the people at the care facility about that. All I know is that she was found on the floor of her room, and since then she hasn't moved or spoken. We've had to force-feed her."

Newsie choked. How could this have happened? He stroked Ethel's hand, hoping somewhere in there she might be conscious enough, here enough to register it. "Could I…could I just have a minute?" he asked. The doctor nodded, and quietly shut the door behind him as he left. Newsie gazed at his aunt a long while in silence. She didn't seem to know anyone was there, not reacting even when he squeezed her hand or spoke her name. He'd known she would eventually slow down, a clock too old to be wound again…but his memories of a youthful, energetic, laughing woman, the one who tousled his hair instead of slapping the top of his head, who snuck him bits of fruit and cheese when his mother had sent him to bed supperless even at Ethel and Joe's vacation cabin, all bore no more resemblance to this frail, broken creature than to any stranger on the street. Less, probably.

A soft sound interrupted his despairing thoughts. He listened, feeling uneasily as though he wasn't alone in the room. A glance at the tiny, high window revealed no birds or tree branches which might've knocked against it, but he could've sworn he heard a small thud. Then a scraping noise came from under the bed.

Newsie stood on the chair so quickly he felt dizzy. More unnerving sounds, scratches and thumps and a low muttering, made his heart stutter. He gulped, and did his best not to allow any fear into his voice: "Wh-who's there? This is supposed to be a private room!"

"Mm. Pri-vate. Mm. Yip yip."

What! Outraged, Newsie jumped to the floor, yanking up the plain dustruffle covering the storage shelf below the bed. Clumped on the shelf like used mops, a pink thing and a blue thing stared at him, eyes huge, mouths trembling. "Awwww! Yip! Yip! Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip awwww!"

"Get out of here!" Newsie yelled. The monsters shifted and squirmed, not retreating, eyeballing him. Furious, he cast about for something to poke them with. In a narrow standing wardrobe, a couple of wire hangers dangled empty; grabbing one, he twisted it into a poker of sorts and jabbed it under the bed. "Get out! Leave her alone!"

"Mn. Bad. Bad news. Yip," the pink one muttered, slithering out of Newsie's reach.

"Yip yip. Bad. Eth-el bad. Mm, yip yip yip yip."

Suddenly a new scenario sprang into the Newsman's mind: Ethel alone with these things. What if she'd reached for something, been just a little off-balance, and… He knew firsthand how strong those strange raggy bodies actually were. "Did you hurt her?" he shouted at them. "Did you make her fall?"

"News bad," the pink one insisted, dodging his next attempt to thwack it, scooting across the floor and suddenly rising a few inches above it. "Bad! Mad! Yip yip yip yip!"

"Eth-el bad," the blue one chimed in, shuffling closer to the oblivious occupant of the bed. With a strangled cry, Newsie leaped at it, swinging the wire, but it ducked and zipped out of the way.

"Bad, sad," the pink one said. Both of the monsters were very agitated now, zipping all over the room with bizarre contortions. They went into a maddening chorus of yipping.

"Get out!" Newsie yelled, driving them away from the bed with wild swings. "Get away from her! Get out!"

A voice from the doorway made him jump. "What in the name of sainted Frau Blucher is going on in here? What's all the yelling?"

He spun around, wire upraised, to see a nurse glaring at him. She put her strong-looking hands on wide hips and loomed over him as she advanced. "You're scaring the other patients! Heck, you'd be scaring this poor lady too, if she knew what was going on around her!"

"Those monsters-!" Newsie cried, pointing a shaking hand at the offenders. "I think they're the ones who hurt my aunt!"

The nurse gave him an odd look. "What monsters?"

"Those ones, obviously, right th—" Newsie suddenly saw the room was empty save for his quiet, unreacting aunt. He looked under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the small powder room. Nothing. "They were here…" he insisted, but the stern expression the nurse wore said she clearly didn't buy it.

"You need to leave now, sir. We don't permit that kind of crazy yelling here."

"Do you permit monsters in the patients' rooms? I…I demand that anti-monster measures be immediately enacted around this room!" Newsie said, retreating a step when the nurse came closer.

"What we do not permit," she threatened, "is anyone disturbing these poor people's peace! Now are you gonna leave, or do I need to call Bellevue?"

"Bell…" He realized, with a sickening despair, what she meant. "I'm not crazy! There were monsters here, threatening my aunt!"

"You need to go. Now. Before I call 'em anyway."

Upset, the Newsman took Ethel's scrapbook and reluctantly left the room, the hall, and the hospital. I should call someone…set up protection for her…maybe Detective Pendziwater? His police contact, though, had often sounded skeptical about things such as monsters or decent recipes being made from Spam. Newsie wasn't certain the cop would help him. What about someone at the theatre? Even those stupid penguins might be able to act as watchdogs. Maybe. He had no idea whom to call, who would be willing to stand guard here…assuming anyone even could, with those strict and disbelieving nurses prowling the halls. They called her 'bad.' Why? What could those crazy rag-things have against her? He hadn't cared much for them when he'd first encountered them at the asylum, hanging around his aunt…but they'd seemed harmless enough. Weird, but harmless. Never trust a monster, he thought grimly. Never! They never lose the feral nature!

At the edge of the gutter in the street in front of the hospital, the Martians paused to confer in low voices. "Eth-el bad sad. Hurt sad. Yip."

The blue one shook itself in all-over unhappiness. "Hurt sad, yip yip." It drew itself up taller, indignant. "News bad! Bad make us go! No go! Nope nope nopenopenope!"

"Nopenopenope!" the pink one agreed, shoving its face against its companion's for better echo effect. It peered over to view the Newsman slowly walking away, lost in unpleasant thoughts, and shook itself jerkily. "News bad! Re-port! Yip yip yip yip!"

"Mn. Re-port. Yip yip," the other agreed.

A flash of pink motion caught Newsie's peripheral vision, never terribly reliable; as jumpy as he felt right now, he swung around immediately to investigate. The monsters! They saw him staring at them, looked at one another, and began emitting some sort of strange humming noise. Before he could react, the two monsters simply…melted. Their shapeless bodies seemed to waver and dissolve, and they swept right down the storm drain next to the curb…into the wastewater channels…into the sewers.

Chilled, Newsie stared at that a long moment, not daring to run over and inspect it too closely. The sewers! Monsters! Oh my frog it's TRUE!

But…but why Ethel? Why turn on her? Had she…had she found out something dire about her little pets? Some shady aspect they hadn't wanted to reveal? He couldn't imagine a good reason they'd harm his harmless old aunt, unless it was to silence her! Frightened, Newsie backed well away from the drains. Good grief, he'd never noticed before just how many points of access there were to the sewers! Did these here in Queens connect with the ones in Manhattan? Did they flow into the East River, or was there some sort of central treatment plant to filter it all? Why had the monsters followed Ethel to the hospital – if not to finish the job!

Shaking, he searched his pockets, inexpressibly relieved when he found his cell phone. Gina must have put it in my coat! Oh Gina, I love you! Gratefully, he punched in his police contact's number, but reached only the man's voicemail. Impatiently he waited for the beep. "Detective! It's the Newsman. I need to request police protection for…for my aunt! I have strong reason to believe she's in danger! She's at Blucher Memorial Hospital, room 67. Please, please send someone to keep watch for her as soon as possible! I think she was attacked by…by…hostile persons. Um. Look, I'll explain it all to you when I see you, but please, I need this. My aunt needs this!"

He stood a long while, uncertain, torn between wanting to go back in and wait until the cops showed up, and hostile nurses be dratted; or hurrying to the library or the city archives – wherever he could find plans for the dizzying network of tunnels undermining the city. If he had to go down there, he was not going in ignorant!

The urge to research was too strong to resist. When he saw a police car pull up to the hospital shortly, he offered silent thanks to his friend on the force, and hastened off to the nearest subway station…and then reconsidered. What if those things could infiltrate the train system? On second thought… Newsie opened his phone and called a cab.

In the hospital lobby, the tired officer strolled up to the admissions desk. "Hey, we gotta call from one'a your nurses about some crazy harassing patients," he told the nurse on duty.

"Oh…yes. Some guy was in here yelling about monsters a little while ago, but I think he left."

"Ah…you want me to just take a look around outside, make sure he's gone?"

"Sure. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." The cop shook his head, pulling out his nightstick and tapping it lightly against his hand as he headed outside. "Monsters!" he chuckled.

"Ever since they built up that d—d contemporary art place, all the crazies migrate over through the tunnel," his partner snorted.

"Tell me about it! Well, come on. Let's walk around the building once. Don't want the patients gettin' all upset by some maniac runnin' in here yellin' crazy stuff…"

The second cop shivered, looking up at the square corners and soulless architecture of the midcentury pile. "Man, hospitals give me the creeps… People die in 'em, ya know?"

Staring out at the river as his cab crossed the Queensboro Bridge (not the most direct route back, but above ground), the Newsman imagined dark things moving in the water, swimming between the boroughs, bent on malevolent errands. All under the surface, under everyone's feet, popping in and out of drains – who knew how wide the threat might be? He fought down the urge to go straight on camera and cry havoc against this insidious threat. The city hadn't been the same since the Twin Towers. No point in starting a panic, or encouraging species profiling…after all, many of the Muppets might be mistaken for monsters. Well…some of them were monsters. He felt cold. Could any of their cast or crew be cohorts of the horrible things menacing his aunt? Uncle Deadly? Sweetums? Robin played with that enormous troll, for frog's sake! No, no…Sweetums couldn't possibly be connected with this! But…but we do have monsters…what if they know something about it? What if some evil monsterist cell approached them, tried to recruit them? He would have to ask. Newsie nodded to himself, frightened, watching the water below for any sign of…of…well, he wasn't sure what.

One thing he was absolutely certain of: his city had just become a great deal more scary.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN. _In which ridiculous stunts are performed, to the amazement of Gonzo's friends, the horror of Camilla, and the disgust of Snookie._

"Tonight! The most amazingly dangerous competition under the face of the earth begins! With death-defying acts gathered from around the globe for your heart-stopping enjoyment! So grab your pacemaker, have a friend standing by with epinephrine, because here we are with the very first night of live incredibly microcephalic stunts on…Break a Leg!"

Snookie beamed widely as the lights burst into brilliance upon the stage, simulated fireworks filling the big screen behind him. "Aaaaaand here are our monstrously popular judges! From the Bronx, New York: Beautiful Day Cooper!"

The shot cut to B.D., nodding and scowling at the long table draped in edible bunting.

"From San Francisco, foggy California: Behemoth Sterling!"

Hem laughed and waved enthusiastically for the camera.

"And also joining us until he gets mistaken for a tasty appetizer yet again, from Peoria, Illinois, Shakey Sanchez-Campbell! And of course me, your cheerful host, Snookie Blyer!"

The audience full of monsters hooted and clapped. Snookie's smile didn't alter, knowing at least one camera was trained on him. Shakey, atop the judges' table, shivered and eyed first Hem, then B.D., trying to figure out which of them was more likely to grab him. For the moment, both of them seemed intent on playing their roles in time-honored talent show tradition: B.D sat back in a white t-shirt with his furry arms crossed, looking smug, and Hem was being overly jolly for the camera and blowing kisses at the audience. "Let's meet tonight's contestants! Each of them has been selected by our judges from hordes of eager but none-too-wise applicants for their originality, their wide array of talents, and of course, their willingness to die for their art!" The all-monster crowd roared its approval, and Snookie wondered how on earth that would play to the couch potatoes tuned in to MMN because they couldn't reach their remotes. Or were in comas, or stuck at the DMV or airport lounges.

"Ever think about rollerskating naked through the crosswalk in Times Square? Hey, who hasn't?" Snookie chuckled. "Our first contestant did exactly that, and drew a raving crowd! Of course, since he had a belt of sausages slung around his waist, his adoring fans were all ravenous dogs! Please welcome – Artemis Kookulboofer, from Down Under!" The audience applauded as an orange kangaroo bounced out onstage, producing a variety of sharp objects from his pouch and proceeding to juggle them. When one of the female audience members whistled at him, he paused to wave at her, and a cleaver narrowly missed his ear as it dropped. "Oo-kay! Save the blood for your act, Artemis! Ha ha ha."

Sweet Merv Griffin, I wish I was back in my cell, Snookie thought wearily. He hated late tapings. Although this was being billed as "live," it actually had a delay time of a few minutes; he imagined the producers wanted to allow for cleanup time if anyone expired messily onstage. Snookie had already presided over five shows today, including a pilot for "Monsters Tonight," which he was only serving as sidekick for (Carl had demanded the host slot as compensation for having to put off the "Sewer's Kitchen" cooking contest), and he was exhausted, hungry, and disgusted with the whole premise for this show. His smile was frozen…not that anyone would notice. Or care. Earlier, he'd glimpsed the time on the director's watch. Pew had been wearing it upside-down. Snookie estimated he'd been working around ten hours even before this thing started taping at six o'clock…assuming, of course, the director had the correct time. Snookie kept grinning like a fool, and introduced the next idio—er, contestant. "Wonderful! Up after Artemis will be the former star of the 'Muppet Show,' the Great Gonzo!"

Gonzo gunned his motorbike up a ramp, riding upside-down on the handlebars while controlling the pedals with rods clamped in his mouth. He spun it out center stage, and with a flourish of his satin cape, flipped himself upright – with the bike balanced on his nose. Briefly. The monster crowd laughed and clapped loudly.

"Frooooomm the D.C. Beltway, Sylvester Stoatlone, master of wild beasts!" Snookie reminded himself to keep his mike well away from this shady, slinky character; the weasel looked like the type to walk off with it and try to resell it to him at a 150% markup. Bowing and grinning with sharp little teeth, Stoatlone cracked a whip, and four enormous dogs rushed onto the stage, baying and snapping; the animal tamer leaped onto the back of one, ducked as the others tried to tackle him, and emerged from the ensuing dustup standing triumphantly atop a pile of confused canines all tangled together with the whip and tied in a pretty bow.

"Last but not least in this round, from Finland, Mungus Mumfrey, the world's only stunt-performing fungus!" Snookie blinked at his cue card. Yep. It said fungus. He edged away from the stage as…something…wobbled and wiggled and shuffled out of the wing. One appendage surged up from the mass, wielding a small blowtorch; it shot fire at itself, and more tentacle-esque, frothing "arms" swung up and smothered it out. Repeatedly. The fungus pumped the blowtorch in the air in an unmistakable victory gesture. "Ooookay," Snookie gulped, slicking back his hair nervously. "Well! There are your competitors for the night – and you're welcome to 'em, ha ha ha! Who has the gazongas to go all the way? Who will explode in a fiery ball of failure? Stick around and find out on…Break a Leg!"

Gonzo took his place at the back of the stage in some kind of chainlink-fenced holding area with the other performers. As the kangaroo began setting up his act and the cameras cut for a commercial, Gonzo stood on tiptoe, peering around the support beams for the lighting trusses. "Uh, hey!" he called to the director standing just off stage right. "Could I have a seat in the audience? I can't see anything from here!"

"Zis iss for your protection, le wit du nit! Zhust stay back here! Aftair all, we would not weesh you to…ah…be lost!" Pew explained, waving his cane vaguely at some of the camerafrackles, who all promptly ducked just in case.

Gonzo raised one eyelid, puzzled. "How would I lose my way back to the stage from the audience?"

"Ah deed not say you would lose your way! Ah said you would be lost! Some of zee audience, zey haff not been fed yet!"

"Oh," Gonzo said, eyes widening as he stared across into the risers of goggly-eyed, thick-furred, scaled, horned, and otherwise unfriendly looking creatures. "Uh…why don't you provide free popcorn? Maybe then they could focus on the show better."

"Do you seenk ah am made of money?" Pew snorted. "Besides! You can always watch zee show on zee big screen!" He gestured behind him and upwards. Gonzo stared at the rusting steel girders holding up the roof a moment before he noticed the projection screen hanging above and behind the stage floor…which was angled away from the holding area he stood in.

"Uh…big screen. Check." With a sigh, he leaned on the fence, waiting for his turn to go on, listening to the yells and howls of the audience as the kangaroo sent daggers and mountain-climbing spikes higher and higher into the air over his head. Boy, I wonder if he does chain-saws too? I don't want to look repetitive…

***

Backstage at the Muppet Theatre, Camilla clucked angrily at anyone trying to change the channel of the grainy-screened television. She could see, barely, the ghost of a logo at the bottom right corner, MMN, and knew she had the correct station; she just wasn't sure what time the show would air, and pecking through the yellowed guide someone had left back here proved to be no help at all. Cindi Cornish grumbled something to Mitzi Clucker behind Camilla; whirling, the impatient hen gave her a piece of her mind. "Buh-kawk bu-bawk bawk buhhhh-kawk!" Cheekfeathers reddening, Cindi made herself scarce.

"Sheesh, what's wit' da boids tonight?" Rizzo wondered, munching on a stale apple fritter he'd looted from the dumpster of the bakery up the street.

Pepe shrugged. "Who knows, amigo? Perhaps they are having…ah…egg troubles?"

"Buk!" Mitzi sniffed, tossing her floppy red wattles as she trotted past the somewhat-less-than-chicken-sized pair.

"Yeah, same ta you, toots!" Rizzo snorted.

"Are jou going to give me a bite of that or what already?"

"Yeah, sure. Plenty more stashed in my locker," Rizzo shrugged, stifling a belch.

"Gracias," Pepe murmured, then started. "Jou has a locker?"

"Keep it down! None'a da other rats know about it yet, and I don't want 'em stealing my snacks!"

"Oy," Pepe said, but ate his share of the fritter as the two of them found a haven on an unoccupied loveseat with broken springs. "So, aren't jou going to ask me about my stupendously unbelievable act tonight already?"

Rizzo eyed the prawn suspiciously. "You have an act?"

"Sí sí, I am in the show tonight. Kermins was so happy to have me fill in, he says to me, 'Pepe, my very dear friend,' he says –"

"Oh, yeah, right!" Rizzo scoffed. "Fill in? For what? Did Lew Zealand's fish all come down sick or somethin'?"

"Jou are not as funny as jou think jou are. No!" Pepe tossed his antennae back proudly. "I am going to sing a song with the band okay? Una…cancion de amor!"

"Cancer da armor? Huh?"

"No, no! Cancion de amor! A love song already okay!"

"Who was you plannin' on singin' dis love song for, pray tell?"

"For all the beautiful womens of the world, okay?" Pepe smoothed down his white dinner jacket and black tie.

"Oh, bruddah. I wondered why you looked like da entrée on a cruise ship tonight!"

"What? What are jou saying to me?"

"Hey, you two," Clifford rumbled, silencing both of them, "keep it down. You wanna talk love? Because that, my little serial bachelors, that right there is the real deal."

The three of them looked to the table in front of the television; Camilla huddled upon it close to the set, making barely audible clucks as Gonzo's moving image filled the screen. Rizzo blinked and pointed.

"Hey! Dere's Gonzo! What da heck!"

They watched in silence, astounded to see their daredevil friend on the gaudily lit set of some other show, the sequins on his bodysuit sparkling as he raised his hands to the audience. "Tonight, I will attempt a stunt which has never been successfully completed before without dire maiming! A stunt so incredible it has repeatedly been listed in the Guinness Book of Records as 'Most Wildly Improbable Use of Seaweed Ever' multiple times! A stunt, in short, called…the Triple Lindy Sushi Roll!"

"Bawwwwwwk!" Camilla groaned, nearly fainting.

"I take this specimen of Pacific Ocean Giant Kelp," Gonzo continued, producing a seemingly endless rope of slimy dark green plant material, "and wrap myself tightly in it…ungh…ergh…excuse me, uh, Snookie? Can you tie this off for me? That's it…make it good and tight…right!" Gonzo beamed at the camera, trussed like an armless mummy in the kelp. "And now I will hop to the top of this thirty-foot high dive…maestro, if you will?"

While Gonzo struggled to pull himself by his chin or his nose up each rung of the very tall, wobbling ladder, a band struck up "Auld Lang Syne." Rizzo, Pepe and Clifford stared in shocked silence as the yellow-felted host smoothed back his dark hair and smiled at the camera. "Well! This has to be an obscure cable channel broadcast first! The original Triple Lindy, as I'm sure you all recall if you haven't been stuck under concrete bunkers for the last thirty years, was first successfully performed by the stunt diver the Amazing Melloni, but no one has ever attempted to do the nail-bitingly difficult dive while encumbered by seaweed!" The view cut to the judges' table. A blue-furred, flat-headed monster scowled up at Gonzo, tapping his fingers on the shoulder of his plain white t-shirt.

"Is that the snooty British pende—"

"No," Rizzo butted in quickly. "He's got a fatter head. I dunno who dis guy is. Shut up an' let Gonzo do his trick."

A tan-furred creature who resembled a push-up pop with eyebrows stared overhead at the high-dive, where Gonzo had somehow managed to drag himself to the edge of the diving board. "Geez, I hope he doesn't wipe out early," the monster muttered. "The boss really wanted him to—"

"Heh heh, and it looks like the Great Gonzo is in place to attempt this ridiculously pointless maneuver! Let's watch," Snookie said. A hush fell over the audience, and a low, ominous drumroll rumbled across the stage.

Camilla shook her head, her heart sinking. Oh, no! Not the Sushi Roll! What on earth was her crazy blue whatever thinking? She fanned her face with a wing, feeling ill.

"Aaaand…one! Two!" Gonzo bounced upon the diving board, looking completely unbalanced. "Threeeeeee!"

The Muppets stared wide-eyed at the screen, collective breaths held. Gonzo sprang into the air, and for a long, stomach-wrenching moment, the camera pulled back to show just how many seconds of freefall he hurtled down…and down…and landed, incredibly, on a second diving board several feet down and to the left of the first one. The audience cheered. Gonzo, grinning madly, bounced off that diving board as well, doing a somersault in midair as he traveled over and down again… down… down… smacked headfirst onto the third diving board! The audience was on its feet, roaring, pounding seat-backs in time with the kettledrummer still sending a roll through the cavernous room. "Buh-kawww!" Camilla gasped, feeling as though a large kernel was stuck in her craw; she could barely breathe.

"OhmyfrogIcan'tbelievehedidthat," Rizzo gulped.

"Holy hot tamoles!" Clifford cried; they kept watching, astounded, when Gonzo did yet another somersault, bouncing off the last board, plunging nose-first into a tiny, open barrel of water. The splash covered much of the stage floor.

"Eek! I can't look! Is he d-dead?" Shakey Sanchez-Campbell stammered.

"Tah-dahhhh!" Gonzo yelled, popping up in the mouth of a gigantic yellowfin tuna. The fish waved its fins, splashing the show's host, who appeared briefly annoyed before reverting to his wide smile. The audience cheered and stomped. The chorus of relieved exhalations in the theatre green room could be heard across the room in the canteen; the Chef poked his head out from the grill, curious, and missed the caramelizing point of his candied gnats. The smoke attracted everyone's attention.

"Boorn de bork a Kermeefroggen!" the Chef huffed, irritated.

"Well if it's dat distractin', try not lookin' at it!" Rizzo snapped in reply, and the disgruntled cook glumly scraped the ruined treat out of his saucepan, shaking his head.

"Man, I can not believe he pulled that off," Clifford laughed, readjusting his shades.

"Unbelievable!" Pepe agreed, forgetting he wasn't supposed to be impressed by anything not tall, sultry, and of the opposite gender. "That dive is the most outrageous thing I have ever seen on the bra box!"

"Da what?" Rizzo asked.

Clifford chuckled. "I think he means the boob-tube."

"Whatevers. It was amazing, okay?" Pepe's gaze narrowed thoughtfully at the screen, where a bowing Gonzo was beaming at the audience's very vocal approval. "Hey, now that he is a big star and everything, do jou think he needs an agent? I think he must get an agent."

"Hey! I knew him way before you showed up!" Rizzo said, whiskers bristling.

Camilla slumped into a pile of feathers, panting. He did it! He actually did it! Why had Gonzo even gone for something that risky? Why was he undertaking this whole mad venture? She shook her head, feeling dazed. She ought to call him, tell him she thought this new show was a mistake, tell him…what? Dismayed, she realized if she asked him to come back, he'd get the wrong message. Of course. He never did really understand what I needed…that I just wanted him at home, protecting the nest…that he didn't need to impress me anymore…that I already… The chicken swallowed dryly.

Everyone looked at her curiously when she hopped down from the table and ran from the room, scattering feathers as she crashed into Binkie Bantam, Black Bart's wife. Much clucking and screeching and battering of wings followed, but eventually Camilla broke free and ran for her dressing-room upstairs…the one she used to share with Gonzo, her dear Gonzo, who simply couldn't understand.

"Okay, true love or not, jou cannot tell me that is not a bad case of monthly eggs already," Pepe grumbled.

***

Gonzo wriggled free of the seaweed; the tuna gulped it down happily. He climbed out of the near-empty barrel. Snookie took a hasty step back when Gonzo flung his sopping arms wide and took another bow. "Wow! Amazing! Let's see what the judges think!" Snookie offered, turning to the monsters.

All three monsters stuck their thumbs in the air. "And the Great Gonzo earns three claws-up from our panel, beating out Artemis Kookulboofer with only two! Nice work Gonzo! How do you rate your own performance?"

"You know, Snookie, I was a little worried at the second somersault, because I realized I had miscalculated the windspeed-to-kelp ratio, but I was able to—"

"That's just fantastic!" Snookie broke in, grinning. "Up after this break, our next contestant – and some very wild beasts! Stay with us!" He stalked offstage immediately when the camera light went to standby. "Wardrobe! Can I get a jacket not drenched in salt water? I can feel this thing shrinking as we speak!"

"That was a dirty trick," someone hissed at Gonzo; surprised, he turned around to find Stoatlone the weasel glowering at him from under his battered fedora. Behind them both, stagemonsters grudgingly mopped up the slippery floor. "Didn't ya hear, bub? Animal-taming is my gig!"

Gonzo looked from him to the tuna. "What, you mean the fish? Oh, believe me, it's not tame! But hey, I wasn't trying to steal your act. Break a leg, okay?"

"Funny," the weasel sneered. "Real funny. Hey, get this overgrown minnow off the stage! I got real wild animals coming on here!"

The tuna rolled a speculative eye at the weasel while he barked out instructions to the ferrets trying to restrain a rocking crateful of something. Suddenly the fish leaped from the barrel, engulfing the weasel down to his waist in its wide mouth. "Grrrggh!" Sylvester cried, flailing with his whip at the stubbornly swallowing tuna. "Geff iff hoff me! Gaaaahhh!"

"Sheesh," Gonzo muttered, leaving the stage, wringing out his cape as he went. "Some people are such poor sports…"

***

With her dressing-hutch door locked, Camilla paced to and fro, wringing her wingtips. That idiot! That…that ridiculous, adrenaline-junkie, foamheaded man! How could he be doing this? Why would he think she would approve? Yes, she'd always supported his dreams, from plumbing to Bollywood, but…but…but! The Triple Lindy Sushi Roll! That was one of those "oh one day, oh if only" stunts! If this is the first night of the competition, and he did THAT? – what could be next? What could be worse? Oh! Shaking, the chicken flopped into her nest bunk, trembling all over.

She checked over her shoulder to make sure she was indeed alone in the room; around here, one never knew – she'd been caught crooning over her recurring egg-hatching fantasy once by a very lively Muppet ottoman, and had to peck it into promising never to speak of what it had overheard. (In her dreams, the little hatchlings all had curving orange-purple beaks and made the cutest coos.) She scratched in the loose straw under the bunk until she found what she'd hidden there, and pulled it out. The framed photo of Gonzo smiled lopsidedly at her in that endearing way he had, usually when somehow making losing a limb sound romantic. Camilla sighed softly. Those days were over. She was no spring chicken anymore, and the innocent young fledgling who'd followed the whatever around so adoringly had grown up and learned that dating a daredevil meant enduring nervewracking performances month after month, year after year…until she could no longer bear having to peck at bits of valerian just to calm down every night. She'd reached the point where every time Gonzo had eagerly begun to explain to her why the cannon-pasta routine would work this time, she'd held up a frustrated wing and told him smartly to bawk to the feather.

Why is he so set on this? Why can't he just settle down? He could still do an act, just…just not one that might leave the chicks fatherless… She frowned. As if there would ever be chicks! Gonzo had changed the subject, visibly nervous, every time she'd cooed about eggs. She'd even left issues of The Nest laying around to encourage him to think about it, all to no avail…and so, though it broke her heart to do so, she'd finally had to tell him she needed some space to roost on her own. Sighing, she stroked the photograph with her feathertips. She didn't know if he'd ever give up a life of danger…even just a little. Even for her.

Depressing though that still was this many months later, Camilla realized, more than anything right now…she felt worried. Very worried.

When Scooter rapped on her door, yelling "Camilla! Curtain in two!", she dried her eyes, tucked the photo away safely again, and fluffed her feathers. Scooter went on down the row of dressing-rooms, banging on doors and giving the two-minute warning. Camilla touched up her mascara in the mirror, sighed, and hoped her eyes didn't appear too puffy. The show had to go on, of course. She understood and accepted that perfectly…the difference was, for her, the show need not involve the probability of serious injury to be a success.

She tugged down the spangled corset she wore tonight, applied some combspray to the wattle atop her head so it would stick straight up, and headed out to the stage, ignoring the stares of the other birds. When a penguin tried to give her some saucy beak, she backwinged it off the landing without even looking back.

Miss Piggy noticed. My goodness, she thought, watching the chicken holding her head high as she fluttered down the stairs. Does someone need a good sit-down and a cup of tea? I think so. Nodding to herself, she made a mental note to arrange a chat with the chicken very soon…not that she objected to the penguin-slapdown. Biting back a smile as the wounded bird staggered to its flippers, clearly woozy, Piggy decided she liked Camilla's style. She sashayed downstairs, carefully lifting her dress hem so nothing would snag. The dizzy penguin looked up at her as she passed it. "Gwawk?" it wondered.

Piggy snorted. "Serves you right. One should never impugn the reputation of a lady." Behind her, low snorks informed Piggy the penguin had not learned its lesson.

She strode off a second later with her snout in the air, satisfied that the aquatic bird would take feminine graces more seriously in the future…assuming it ever emerged from the coma.

***

"Zat was vairy…messy," Pew told Gonzo when the whatever rejoined the director backstage. "Next tahme please conzidair zee cleaning zupplies budget! Ah haff to steal zem all from zee infomercials next door, and when zey come ovair wanting to know why all zee Deoxy-clean is missing, ah weel tell zem it was all your fault!"

"Okay, sorry," Gonzo said, surprised. He noticed a small TV monitor in a corner, where a large-mouthed brown monster with huge rabbity ears glared at the ongoing show while it – she?—fussed with her tutu, before running out to turn cartwheels as the theme music swelled and subsided and Snookie introduced the next contestant. "Hey, cool! That Stoatlone guy is using Transylvanian Weregophers!"

"Oh, zat is just great!" Pew grumped, swinging his cane; a passing short furry goblin squeaked, batted back down the stairs it had just climbed up with a full cup of coffee. Pew seemed oblivious to the pained shrieking from the stairwell. "Where are mah cleaners? Cleanaaaiiiirrrss!"

A weak voice from the bottom of the stairs whimpered, "No…not the cleaners!"

Discomfited, Gonzo looked back at the screen; Snookie had yielded the stage floor, and the weasel was cracking his whip, urging a dozen coarse-furred, heavy-jawed creatures through a series of hoops. "Uh…do the gophers typically make a mess?"

"Deed zat eediot not haff a feesh on his head a moment ago?" Pew demanded.

"Well, technically, I think it was more like over his head…and his arms…and his chest…"

"Transylvanian Weregophers hate feesh! Zey attack whenevair zey smell it!" Pew complained, waving his cane around; Gonzo ducked, and the cane whacked a camera being moved into position for a side angle shot. The camera spun, in turn thwacking one of the lighting frackles tying down a long loop of electrical cable. Yelping, the frackle tripped backwards over the cable, his ankle snagging in a loose loop which immediately tightened with the weight of the huge light on the other end, yanked free of its clamp on the truss high above. The light fell with a crashing thud, the frackle's head met the truss with a loud bonnnngg, and Pew shouted angrily, "Quiet! Quiet! Ah cannot hear myzelf theenk with all thees racket!"

The audience roared and laughed over the disturbing noise of howling gophers and a protesting and then screaming Sylvester: "AhhhWOOOO! Snork snork ahhhWOOOO!"

"Hey! Get off me! Hey! Back! Down! No! Sit! Staaaaayyy! Aaaaaaaaaaahhh!"

Perturbed, Gonzo stared at the little TV. A figure in a tattered, hooded black shroud slowly advanced across the glistening floor of the stage, and then the camera cut to the judges' table. Hem was thoughtfully chewing on a strip of red fur, and Shakey was nowhere to be seen; B.D. shook his head and gave a claws-down sign. "Uh…your stage manager seems to be coming up to take care of it…" Gonzo told the director.

"Cleeeennaaaairs!" Pew bellowed.

"We'll be right back after this word from the good folks at Deoxy-clean!" Snookie proclaimed, smiling broadly for his closeup.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN. _In which plans are made over drinks, and Beaker encounters a drinking problem; Newsie is worried, and Rhonda is over it._

"What can I getcha?" the bartender asked.

Uncertainly, Newsie glanced at the rows of exotic liquors and liqueurs interspersed between racks of test tubes and Pyrex glassware, all lit with blacklight. "Er…uh…just a ginger beer, please. Bleinheim's, if you carry it."

A frosty bottle plunked onto the counter before him. The Newsman paid for it and immediately took a long gulp. Gina had introduced him to the heady, potent brew during the summer heat; he usually didn't go right for the strong stuff, but tonight he was feeling unnerved enough to want a panacea. His gaze traveled around the tavern, passing over a crowd of students performing some kind of experiment with a full rig of bottles, tubes, and a gas burner in the corner; a few professorish types puffing on e-cigs while they quaffed strong mugs of stout; two bespectacled, lab-coated young women at the bar clearly ignoring the two young men in argyle sleeveless cardigans who kept trying to start a conversation with them. There were a few tables still empty, but the Newsman was feeling too skittish to turn away from the bar and its long, mirror-tiled periodic table of the elements which gave him a good view of the whole room. Not that he thought it likely a monster would come in here…but better safe than sorry.

He took another swig of the ginger soda, coughing a little, reminding himself to slow down. His throat burned. The TV over this end of the bar showed some sort of pulsing, horrible fungoid blob wielding a blowtorch while a trio of monsters watched. Startled, Newsie gestured for the bartender's attention. "What the heck is that? A horror movie?" he demanded, pointing to the blob onscreen; it appeared now to be doing some sort of ballet in excruciating closeup.

The bartender laughed. "Uh…no, I thought it was some kind of new talent show. Weird!"

"Well can you change the channel, please?" Newsie asked. Shrugging, the man wiped his fingers on his apron, found the remote, and turned the station to one of the major networks' evening news broadcasts. "Thank you," Newsie nodded. He jumped, almost falling off his barstool when someone patted his shoulder. "Ack!"

"Well hello, Newsman!" Dr Bunsen Honeydew exclaimed. "Fancy meeting you here! I didn't realize you had an interest in chemistry!"

"Meep meep," Beaker added, nodding familiarly.

"Er…hello, Dr Honeydew, Beaker. No, I…I'm meeting Gina. This is one of her favorite taverns," Newsie explained. "Uh…do you come here often?"

"Tsst, tsst! Does that mean you want to buy me a drink?" Honeydew joked; Beaker tittered. At the Newsman's obviously confused expression, Bunsen patted his shoulder again. "I'm just joshing you, of course! Excuse me, barkeep? One radiator coolant!" Beaker meeped at him. "Oh, sorry. Make that two, please!"

Two tall lab mixing beakers of thick, greenish liquid appeared quickly on the bartop; the bartender used metal tongs to carefully drop a chunk of dry ice into each of them, and then slid neon curly-straws into the glasses before pushing them over. "Mee!" Beaker said happily, slurping his noisily.

"Excellent! Keep the change," Bunsen said, handing a bill over. He turned once more to Newsie. "This is our favorite bar. Most places simply don't understand the research scientist's need to enjoy a mildly toxic beverage after a long day in the lab! But here, even the drinks cater to our tastes, right, Beaker?" His lab partner made happy noises, the straw still stuck in his mouth.

Newsie gave the green stuff a dubious look. "Er…that isn't really…"

"Radiator fluid? Oh, ho, ho! Of course not! No, this is a rather potent combination of green apple schnapps, Angustora bitters, absinthe and diet lime soda, with just a teensy touch of paradimethylaminobenzaldehyde! Would you care to try a sip? I can ask for another straw…"

A girl's high peal of laughter from the experiment in the corner made Beaker look up so fast his straw jerked up, leaving the glass but still in his mouth; when one of the lab-coated ladies at the bar noticed Beaker and gave him a very frank study, and then a smile, Beaker blushed and tried to smooth down his hair. His arm knocked his straw from his lips and onto the floor. He looked from the now-contaminated straw to his drink, shrugged, and drank straight from the glass.

"Uh…I thought dry ice was poisonous?" Newsie asked.

"Oh, not really! But one does need to make sure one's felt doesn't actually come in direct contact with the frozen carbon dioxide! It can cause rather bad burns." Newsie nodded, glancing at the door, hoping Gina would arrive soon. He knew he was early, and although it was nice to see a colleague, he'd never been entirely comfortable around these two…less so since the incident with them and the psychokinetic reverse field energy generator earlier this year.

Beaker started, hastily removing the drink from his mouth, but the bubbling, slowly evaporating chunk of dry ice refused to unstick from his upper lip. "Meee! Meee!" Frantically he tugged at it with one hand. His fingers stuck to it. "Meeee!"

"Oh, honestly, Beaker! If you like her proportions too, why don't you offer to buy her a drink?" Bunsen grumbled, not looking at his assistant. He leaned closer to Newsie. "I keep encouraging him to have more of a social life, but you know Beaker! Totally devoted to his work!" He smiled. "It is very nice to know you and your Romany sweetheart get out together once in a while! It makes for a nice break from your news work, I would imagine."

"It does," Newsie agreed. He cast an uncertain glance at Beaker, who was now reeling between the nearest tables, meeping and flailing his elbows, his drink abandoned on the bartop. "Is…is he all right?"

Bunsen shook his head wearily. "Regrettably, my colleague sometimes forgets he shouldn't drink on an empty stomach!" He nodded at the Newsman's nearly-empty ginger beer. "Will you and Ms Broucek be eating here as well? They have some truly wonderful sandwiches! I highly recommend the organic metacarbon au jus – it comes with a side of the most delightful ammonium-iodide pommes frites!"

Irritated exclamations came from the table holding the experiment in the corner. Trying to keep up the conversation but feeling somewhat distracted, the Newsman sipped more of his ginger brew. "Ah…sounds very…culinary."

"Why don't you join us for dinner? It would be a pleasure to catch back up with the two of you," Bunsen offered. "Oh! Speaking of joining…will you be participating in the charity walk on Halloween?"

"The MADL event?" Newsie shook his head. "Dr Honeydew, I really can't. It would compromise my journalistic standards to actively take part in a special-interest group's fundraising."

"Oh, of course. How silly of me! I never considered that. I suppose you must have to walk a very fine line between us and the non-felted, what with your mainstream news job."

Uncomfortably, Newsie shrugged. "No, no, my station probably wouldn't mind…it's just… Well, you try to be completely objective in your labwork, don't you?"

"Absolutely." Honeydew smiled at him. "I think I see your position! Well, might you give us some coverage on the news? Surely a few mentions leading up to that night, and perhaps a live report on the walk that evening, couldn't hurt?"

Newsie considered it. From the back corner, high-pitched meeps gave way to shouts of "Watch it!" and "Look out!" and a series of glass-shattering crashes. Discomfited, he looked around, but couldn't make out precisely what was going on amid the frantic movements of the student crowd; he glimpsed Beaker's fiery orange hair above the melee only an instant. He tried to focus on Honeydew. "Well…uh…no, that sounds fair enough…"

"Splendid! It will take place Halloween night, on Doyers Street, at the old—" An especially loud BOOM from the corner had the bartender shouldering past them, a fire extinguisher held aloft. Newsie started at the sight of Beaker's hair actually aflame. "Oh, dear! Excuse me, Newsman! Beaker! For heaven's sake, you forgot your drink!" Honeydew hurried into the surging crowd, excusing and pardoning himself numerous times to navigate the gawkers surrounding the blackened lab equipment.

"Um…are they all right?"

Relieved at the familiar voice, Newsie turned to see Gina staring worriedly at the white-coated carnage. "As much as they ever are," he replied, setting his drink down to give her a strong hug. He nuzzled his nose against her shoulder, sighing, and took comfort in her arms around him.

"Goodness. Bad night?" she asked, settling onto the barstool next to his. "I thought you liked being weekend anchorman?"

Since the departure of former star anchor Bart Fargo under a cloud of humiliation and a green tint he never could quite dye out of his hair, the station manager had appointed the Newsman as weekend anchor for the six o'clock news. The former weekend anchor, a veteran who'd been angling for the main seat for years, did certainly deserve his shot, the Newsman thought, but he still felt a twinge of irritation that he himself hadn't been picked for the more important slot. However, it was still a step up, and even a small salary bump, so he wasn't complaining – no matter how much Rhonda did. He sighed again. "No, the news was fine…I mean, presenting it…"

"Gotcha. So…what fell on you?" She discreetly checked the top of his head for bruising as she stroked her fingers lightly through his thick auburn hair.

He blushed. "Please…I'm fine…it was only a dozen or so cantaloupes." He blinked seriously at her. "Naturally, I had them destroyed! Listeria is terrible!"

"Naturally," Gina agreed, biting back a smile. She gestured at the bartender. "Dark and stormy, please?" She nodded at Newsie's drink. "You want another of those, or something less potent?"

Newsie set the empty bottle on the bartop. "One more, I think." A small rustling noise made him jump and nervously look all around, but it turned out to be only a couple of soused penguins bumping through the crowd's legs as they passed by.

"Okay…you really are keyed up," Gina observed. "Newsie, what happened?"

The bartender returned, setting another Bleinheim's before Newsie, but then indicated Gina's Day-of-the-Dead-evoking outfit. "Hey, if you want, we got a special going on for Halloween drinks all month! Want to try a 'dark and stormy hayride'?"

"What's that?"

"Same drink, but with pumpkin-spice liqueur and vanilla rum."

"Oooh...yeah! Thank you!" She smiled briefly as the man poured out the drink for her in a large pumpkin-shaped glass and topped it off with a straw and a skewer of candy corn. "Mmm…wanna try?" she offered Newsie a sip.

He shook his head, casting an anxious look at the noisy young patrons carrying on their party or experiment or both, despite the faint haze of smoke still lingering. "Can we…find someplace quiet in here? If that's possible?"

"I see an empty booth. Come on."

The Newsman followed his beloved back to a cramped booth, and climbed onto the vinyl seat across from her. The fake cobwebs and tacky strings of skull-shaped lights everywhere did nothing to alleviate his mood. Gina took his hand in hers, concerned. "Is your aunt okay?" Seeing his expression instantly change for the worse, she stroked his fingers. "Oh…Newsie. I'm sorry. How is she?"

"She's in the hospital," he muttered, staring at the table. "The doctor doesn't know if she'll recover or not. She's…conscious, but not at all aware of where she is. Less than before. She's not even talking."

"Newsie…I'm so sorry." Gina kissed his fingers gently.

"They said she fell…"

"Geez. Wasn't anyone with her?"

"Those two freaks were!" Newsie spat. Startled, Gina sat back, eyes widening. "They – they tripped her, or pushed her, or something! I caught them hiding in her room at the hospital!"

"Those two furry things? The…yipping jellyfish with the big mouths?"

"Yes! They hurt her! They – they called her 'bad'!" He stared grimly at his worried love. "I've arranged for police protection for her, but something awful is going on, Gina. I'm sure of it! I saw them leave through the sewers! The sewers!"

It took her a second to realize what he meant. "This…this is connected to those stories of people disappearing you've been researching?"

"It must be!" He shook his head, and held tight to her hand. "Gina…if monsters really are invading the city…I have to warn people! I have to find out what their horrible plot is, and expose them!"

"Newsie…why would those two creatures want to hurt your aunt? They seemed to really like her, I thought. It doesn't make sense…"

"It does if there is some master plan, and those two are part of it! Maybe…maybe Ethel found something out, or saw something about them they'd rather the public not know! What if there are terrorist monsters? What if there are hideous furry insurgents hiding in the New York City subway tunnels? Think of the damage they could do! It would be worse than Spain! It could potentially be bigger than 9/11!"

"Aloysius," she said softly, holding his fingers tight in her own, "calm down. Take a drink, take a breath, let's start this over, okay?"

Frustrated, Newsie nevertheless did as she suggested, downing two long gulps of the ginger beer, then suffering hiccups. Gina leaned over and smacked his shoulderblades; he gulped, took a deep breath, nodded thanks, and tried to organize his racing thoughts. "I haven't seen you this anxious in a long while," she said, watching him wrest himself under control with a concerned frown. "You're jumping at every little noise."

He shivered. "I saw them, Gina. They…dissolved right down the storm drain! It was grotesque!"

"Okay…but that doesn't mean they attacked your aunt. Or that they've been dragging people into the sewers to eat them, or whatever." She sipped her drink, eyes narrowed over the rim of the glass at her clearly shaken Muppet journalist. "So…how many people have gone missing in the sewers? Provable, I mean – that can't be explained any other way?"

"At least seven," he replied, then thought about it. "More likely nine or ten. And those are just the ones that have been reported by co-workers or friends of the missing! Remember when a whole enclave of homeless people were discovered living in an abandoned subway tunnel, a few years ago? If the monsters attacked a group like that…dozens would be simply gone and no one would be the wiser on the surface!" Distraught, he glanced around the room, not sure what he should be looking for but nagged by the disturbing feeling he ought to be on the watch for something. He downed the rest of his ginger brew, and cleaned his glasses with a small cloth; his vision seemed a trifle blurry, and he wanted to be sharp in every way right now. When Gina took his hand again he jumped slightly.

"Newsie…relax. Please," Gina begged softly. "There are no monsters here. None." He nodded curtly, still restless of eye and movement. Gina sighed. "So what are you going to do about it? Start yelling for everyone to go monster-hunting in the subway?"

"That would be irresponsible."

"Good. I'm glad you realize that." Gina shook her head, but stroked his fingers in hers. "Look, maybe there is something to all this, but sitting here worrying about it instead of enjoying a nice dinner isn't going to help matters, or calm you."

"I've already begun research. I spent the rest of the afternoon at the library." He scowled. "All the blueprints are at City Hall, though, and they won't be open until Monday! I did find a number of books on the subject, however…"

"Urban myths? Alligators flushed down toilets turning feral in the sewers?"

"Of course not! No…I mean material concerning the history and construction of the tunnels. Subway, abandoned lines, sewer systems, gas and power conduits, deep water routes below the bedrock…everything." He swallowed the last trace of ginger, feeling suddenly sheepish. "Uh…I piled them all on the coffee table. I'll organize when we get home."

"So you're not going to go on the air and declare the city has a monster infestation under the streets?"

"Absolutely not!" he said, shocked. "They…they might see the broadcast, and be ready for me!"

"Newsie…I kind of doubt monsters watch the local news." Gina started to smile, then the implication of what he'd just said sank in. "Newsie. Please tell me you're not planning on going down there yourself!"

"Um. Er…"

"I thought all that was off-limits? Only city services workers, subway technicians, those kind of folks allowed down at all?" She frowned, her petite nose wrinkling in a way he would have found adorable in other circumstances. "Not to mention it's dangerous! Live wires, nasty gunk in the water…why would you want to risk it? Please tell me you're not even considering that!"

"Er. Uh…"

Gina sighed, watching him squirm and fidget with his tie and his shirtcuffs. "This really smells like a story to you?"

Unhappily, he met her gaze, and nodded. "That 'nose for news' thing isn't really a joke. I honestly did pick the profession that best suited my natural talents…"

With a wistful smile, Gina stroked a finger down the sharp edge of his long nose. "And suited you are, my dedicated journalist. Uh…what does this story smell like, exactly?"

Newsie shivered all over. "Like dirty wet fur," he muttered. "Like horrible things under the bed."

Gina's boot kicked something under their table. "Sheesh!" a fairly large orange-and-green-striped spider complained as it scuttled away, "Lousy service, spilled beers, and rude customers! See if I ever spin a web here again!"

The both stared after it a moment. Newsie pushed his empty bottle away, feeling mildly ill. "Spider," Gina pointed out. "Not monster."

"Close enough," he grumbled. He felt her touch on his chin, and looked up into soft grey eyes.

"Do you know I love you, and I want you happy?" she asked.

Despite his anxiety, he melted inside. He nodded.

Gina smiled at him, though she appeared hesitant. "Then if you really think this is some kind of big conspiracy, do your homework and look into it. Just…be careful. Don't go down there unless it's with some kind of official guide, okay? And not without telling me first. Please."

"All right," he agreed, and leaned over the table to meet her proffered lips in a kiss. "I love you."

"Homework first. I know how much you dislike monsters; just don't let it color your judgment, okay?" She smiled more openly. "Hey, if there is something we need to worry about, I'll play Paul Revere with you! But I think you need a lot more evidence than a couple of weird rag-things yipping down a storm drain." She laid one hand on the as-yet-unopened plastic menu on the table. "Have dinner with me?"

"Of course," the Newsman said, embarrassed at having been so gung-ho, and looked over the menu with her, the two of them passing it back and forth and finally waving down the harried lone waitress. Gina's right, he thought. This did merit a great deal more investigation first…but he was still convinced malevolent monsters were lurking somewhere down there…plotting. Waiting. Maybe silencing those who discovered too much. He would have to be very, very careful, he realized. However, that didn't mean he shouldn't do something to warn people immediately…

Rhonda disagreed completely.

"Are you completely insane?" she squeaked, tiny eyes wide, when on Sunday afternoon she came storming into his dressing-room at KRAK, his news script for the night in hand. "Goldie, what the heck is this?"

Annoyed at her barging in without knocking, the Newsman finished buttoning up his dress shirt; he'd removed it to brush his teeth, always sensitive to his appearance on-camera. "Looks like tonight's script to me. Something wrong with it?" he demanded.

"Oh, geez, lemme see. Hmm. Story on Occupy Wall Street, check. Story on Libyan rebel government, check. Story on listeria breakout –"

"Not more fruit," he muttered under his breath, reflexively smoothing down his hair.

"Check," Rhonda continued, ignoring his interruption. "Story on people vanishing in the sewers, check – oh wait a minute, am I wrong or does this story have absolutely nothing at all to do with reality?" She smacked the papers down on the long makeup counter in front of his mirror. "Obviously you wrote that one – I asked Art and Murray and neither of them knew anything about it! So what gives?"

"Rhonda," he said, taking a deep breath, "in the past month, at least seven people have gone into the tunnels beneath this city, witnessed by others who were with them at the time, and have not re-emerged! That's too many to be accidents and too many to be coincidence!" He glared at her. "And I personally witnessed a couple of suspicious, possibly homicidal monsters escaping down a storm drain in Queens!"

"Homicidal monsters?" She glanced through the reports again. "It doesn't say anything in here about that!"

"Of course not! Do you think I don't know the consequences of starting a panic? Or of alerting the monsters that I'm wise to them, before I have all the facts in hand?" Snorting disgustedly, he lifted his chin to see his tie in the mirror, and knotted it with quick, angry movements. "For all I know, there could be monsterist cells operating in this very station!"

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Oh, right, of course, silly me! Hey, I bet there are monster spies around here who are keeping an eye on you, and who are all in a secret sinister plot to take over the airwaves and force a TV-addicted populace to its knees for their secret monster agenda!"  
Newsie paused, giving her a worried look. "Really? You think it goes that deep?"

Rhonda jumped up, thwacking him over the nose with the news script. "Have you completely lost your mind?" Newsie stumbled back a step, one hand instinctively protecting his nose, startled. "Oh my frog! You really have been clobbered by too many falling objects! Newsie, come on! Do you think Sweetums is involved in a terror plot? Or Big Mama? Or the Mutations?"

"I never trusted those guys," Newsie muttered. "Their singing is so bad it has to be a cover for something else!"

"Oh, please! What about the cute ones from that kid's show – Cookie Monster? Herry Monster? Elmo? They're monsters! Think they're all plotting to take over the world?"

Newsie shot her a glare. "Well, the first two are probably all right, but that Elmo character…"

"I do not believe I am hearing this!"

"Oh no? Well what about this? Remember those two ConEd guys who filed the police report a week ago? No one has seen them since! They never even made it to their homes! I checked!" He scowled, feeling entirely justified. "Doesn't that strike you as scary?"

"No, you know what's scary? Scary is the fact that our nightly news is so poor, we're being beat out in the ratings by some local-indie-channel talent show thing!" Rhonda pulled the latest Nielsen printout from a pocket, and Newsie blinked; where did the rat even have pockets in that tight miniskirt and bolo jacket? She waved the sheet in his face, although she had to jump onto the makeup counter to do it. "I mean, I never even heard of this station before! MMN? What the heck is that? And they're beating us by two full points!"

Irritated, Newsie brushed the ratings sheet away. "I'm in the news business, not the entertainment business!"

"Oh, well la dee dah," Rhonda sniffed. "Like you getting pummeled by stuff even on the regular news gig isn't entertaining! Look, why don't ya do a piece on cows or something?"

"Cows?"

"Sure. Or sheep. Sheep are funny."

"D—it, Rhonda, I'm not here to be funny!" he shouted. "I'm here because people need to know about things which could affect their lives! And that certainly includes the possibility that monsters may be invading the city right underneath their feet!"

Rhonda's whiskers bristled, and she put her nose right up to his. "I'll tell ya what's affecting my life right now – my just-became-a-real-anchor news partner is too caught up in his personal phobias to put any energy into making his broadcast more watchable, and what happens to him happens to me because I'm his stupid reports producer!" They glared at one another, fuming. Rhonda pushed her hair out of her eyes, trying to regain her professional mien. "Newsie…look. Drop the monster stuff. It's just not credible. You wanna chase after missing people, fine, great, we'll set up a two-unit shoot this week. Tromping around in other people's waste sounds delightful and I can't wait to ride shotgun on that! But meantime, can you please, please, please just stick to real stories that people actually wanna watch?"

"I won't say a word about monsters," he promised grudgingly, lowering his voice. "But I will present my findings on missing persons in the tunnels. People need to be warned not to go down there, Rhonda. I'm serious."

"I hadn't ever noticed," she sighed in return, but there was no venom in her jibe. "Okay, fine. Now can you work this in somewhere?" She handed him a sheet of paper with some news copy typed on it; he took it, read it quickly, and frowned, confused.

"Uh…an ad about Happy Harvey's Hamster Hamburgers?"

"I was thinking maybe use it as a lighter-tone piece. Just don't put it anywhere near that listeria story."

"Rhonda…is this a sponsor?"

"They've offered us freebies off their lunch cart every weekday. Not a bad trade. The boss wants it worked into the broadcast, okay?"

Surprised, the Newsman stared hard at the blasé little rat. "Sponsorship? Are we labeling it as such, at least? Should I say this segment is brought to you by Happy Harvey's?"

"Nah, you don't need to go to that much trouble. Just…maybe…what if you ate one of their burgers on-camera, and mention they opened a new joint on the Upper East Side? I'll make sure the front of the bag is facing camera two…"

"Rhonda! No!"

"Oh. Already had dinner? Okay – pretend to eat it. Really, it's the bag that counts the most; you can fake the rest."

"No!" Astounded, the Newsman drew himself up to his full three-foot-six (seven, with his shoes on) and gave her his deepest scowl. "That's not news! I will not present it in any way which might even suggest that! If they want ads, have them talk to the station's ad department, not the news division!"

"Newsie…" Rhonda sighed. "Look. You like being anchor, even on weekends, am I right? It's nice?"

"What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything!" She leaned closer, glancing toward the closed door to the hallway. "Uh…but Blanke told me to tell you he wants all his anchors to earn their nicer pay. Capiche?"

"That's blackmail!" he sputtered. "That's…that's compromising the news! I won't do it!"

"You wanna go back to the only-Muppet-news gig? A few seconds a night on-camera, instead of being behind the big desk to introduce every story? You want to give up this cushy dressing-room?"

Shocked, Newsie stared at her. "But...but this is my dressing-room!"

Rhonda shrugged. "Hey, I'm not saying I like it either! Frankly, those hamster burgers kinda creep me out…and they taste terrible. But ratings are down, and if we don't pick up some more ad revenue quick, cuts will be made, and people will be demoted if they aren't locked into cushy contracts, and you know I was only able to negotiate schedule for you with them – not a guaranteed anchor position." She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirt, and crossed her arms over her chest. "So do the danged report already. It's a small enough price to pay for all this, I think. And it's the way everybody does the news these days. Sordid, I'll grant ya, but established practice. So mention the nasty burgers and you get full funding for your special reports, including two cameras all week to go squishing through the sewers if that's your cup a' java. Okay?"

The Newsman didn't reply, thoroughly disgusted. Without a word he tucked the reprehensible ad copy into his news script pages, and Rhonda patted his arm. "That wasn't so painful, was it? No to monsters, yes to burgers, you're due on set in two minutes, we all good?"

"Fine," Newsie muttered. "Can I finish dressing in peace?"

"Ya know, I don't know why Gina buys you nice coats. It's only gonna need dry-cleaning," the rat called over her shoulder as she trotted out of the room.

Angrily, Newsie read the ad again. An idea struck, and he woke up his PowerBook and logged on to the Web, typing in a search for the happy hamburgers. He found what he'd hoped for in seconds, and with a smile, turned his printer on and started feeding webpages to it.

"Good evening! It is Sunday, October the sixteenth. I'm the Newsman, and here are tonight's top stories…" The newscast went fairly smoothly; he was prepared for the cantaloupes pelting him this time, and managed to stay more or less upright and focused on the camera after the last one had thumped his head. The brief about NATO air strikes had him flinching and crouching as frightening sounds seared the air over his head; he didn't look up, not wanting to know whether it was missiles or attack drones this time. Finally, in local news, he swallowed dryly and launched into his warning: "A series of unexplained disappearances of workers in the city's vast underground tunnel system has some at Consolidated Edison worried. Although workers keep their own maps of the extensive network of subway, service and water tunnels in order to facilitate their routine repair and maintenance tasks for the utility company, the company has been hearing reports of unusual things in the tunnels! Two workers actually filed a police report claiming to have seen some sort of creature briefly in a maintenance tunnel, and having heard continuous, unexplained noises while working in a seldom-used stretch of the tunnel." Nervously, he checked the studio floor, but saw no monsters present. "KRAK News followed up on this report, and tried to contact the workers; however, they did not show up for work the following day, or any day since, and efforts to reach them at home have failed. Neighbors and family members are worried, saying the two men who filed the report have not been home since the day they did so! It has now been ten days since this mysterious chain of events began. Anyone with information on the whereabouts of either of these men," (he glanced at a monitor to make sure the men's names and photos were being displayed behind him; they were) "is asked to call NYPD. But this is not the only case recently of disappearances underground! Two weeks ago, a homeless man encamped near a disused subway station at Rockefeller Plaza claimed a friend of his went foraging for papers to use as heating fuel down into the subway, and never returned. Others have claimed to have heard strange sounds, like wild animals, and there may well be more people vanished off the streets of the city than the seven positively documented by police as missing persons last seen in the vicinity of sewer openings, subway tunnels, or the aqueduct route through Central Park. If you have any information on cases like these, please call or email this reporter, care of KRAK News."

He took a deep breath, hoping more leads, real leads, would surface. "And also in local news tonight: chain restaurant Happy Harvey's Hamster Hamburgers is being investigated for what health department officials say is a potential food code violation! Numerous customers throughout the five boroughs have brought complaints to the health department, as well as the Better Business Bureau, for having found alleged gerbil hair in the purported all-hamster burgers. To investigate these claims, KRAK has obtained a random, sample burger from Happy Harvey's, which Muppet Labs will independently subject to various chemical and spectrographic tests. We'll bring you the results tomorrow night, right here on KRAK Big Apple News! For the record, Happy Harvey's is a sponsor of this program." He smiled, easily ducking the apples which fell from the ceiling as well as the squeaking gerbils suddenly dashing madly underfoot. "Coming up: sports with Lewis Kazagger!"

The feed cut to commercial; Newsie could only perversely hope it was for Happy Harvey's. Rhonda had one paw plastered over her eyes, her head thrown back in a why-me posture. Art the news floor director was shaking his head. In the control booth, Newsie could see one of the producers already on her cell phone, looking very stressed. He leaned back in his chair – ah, so nice to have an actual chair – and shuffled the papers on his desk, bringing to the front the national news and the script for the interview via live feed on-the-scene at the park where the Wall Street protesters were camped tonight. Rhonda darted forward.

"Blanke wants to talk to you after the show," she hissed. He only smiled at her, and she put her paws on her waist and glared. "You better not get my parking space revoked! I earned that danged thing!"

She NEEDS a parking space? he wondered, curious, but then the feed was back in the studio, and he turned to the camera, and calmly went on with the news.

The black furry long-tailed bat with orange ears and wide yellow eyes crawled wing-over-wing from the stage lighting truss up into the ceiling, and scraped its way stealthily along until it reached the building's ventilation shaft, then flew down toward the basement. It didn't need to stick around for the rest of the show…it had heard enough.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE. _In which Kermit wants to find a cabin; Fozzie wants to prove his worth; Carl wants to be Dave Letterman; and Snookie just wants monsters to stop eating him._

"Scooter, did we –"

"Already checked in, Chief. Here's your boarding pass, we have ten minutes to get to the gate before they'll even start boarding, it's all good." Scooter smiled at the frog. "Heck, forget good—this is probably the most leeway we've ever had for one of these trips!" He noticed Piggy giving her husband a resigned smile, and tactfully gestured at the airport security portal. "Uh, why don't I go on ahead and make sure the plane is on time? I'll meet you there, okay?"

Kermit nodded, not bothering to point out the obvious arrival/departure board just a few feet away, which said their flight was already at the gate. Scooter smiled at Piggy and hustled off, scooping off his shoes and emptying the change from his pockets with the practiced ease of the frequent flyer. He'd said his goodbyes this morning to Sara back at their place, and knew better than to come between a pig and her frog in a moment of tenderness. Kermit gazed fondly up at his wife, and she softly caressed his shoulder through the light coat he wore.

"Call every night," she murmured so no one would overhear.

"I will," he promised, stealing a kiss. When he pulled back slightly, the look on Piggy's face said Buster, you can do better than that! With a chuckle, he leaned up and gave her a proper kiss, long and sweet. "It's only a few days. We'll be back by Fozzie's party," he added, seeing the bear puffing up the carpeted ramp to the airline hub.

"Okay, Kermit, I got da car parked, and I just want you to know dat while you're gone we will take care of everything! So don't worry about a thing!" Fozzie assured him.

"Oh, good," Kermit said. He turned to Clifford, who was having trouble tearing himself away from a somewhat one-sided conversation with a female security guard. "Hey, Clifford! Got a minute?"

"Heh heh, duty calls," Clifford said ruefully. He tried to hand a hastily scribbled piece of paper to the guard. "But I'd love it if you called instead!" Backing away as the guard gave him a very icy stare, the former show host smiled. "Ciao, baby!"

"Sheesh," Piggy muttered. "Are you sure about this, Kermit?"

"Everything will be fine," Kermit assured her. Scooter had already done all the legwork, so to speak, going through property photos and film boards' production fees for Vermont, New Hampshire, and even up into Ontario until he'd narrowed down the rural cabins-by-lakes which seemed the best bets for filming on location. They hoped to actually start the outdoor shoots in a couple of weeks; a studio set was already lined up for the interior scenes. "It should only take a few days before we nail down where the cabin scenes will shoot. I'm sure one of these places will prove to be the perfect location! …Clifford, if there's anything you need while we're gone, feel free to call, okay? And I'm sure Scooter will be checking in…"

"Kerm, no worries!" Clifford said, smiling. "I've run a show before, you know. It'll all be smooth as Miles Davis."

"Wait," Fozzie said, confused. "Uh…I thought I was gonna run da show while you guys were gone?"

Kermit exchanged a glance with Clifford; at least, he was fairly sure the purple Muppet read his expression loud and clear even through those dark shades. "Uh, well, Fozzie, I thought this way you could focus more on your act, okay?" Kermit said.

"Oh," Fozzie said, crestfallen. "Okay…wait! Do…do you think my act needs more work?"

"Well, a good comic is always adapting, right?" Kermit offered. Fozzie nodded, though he seemed less than pleased.

Piggy embraced her frog, and said cheerily, "Moi is quite sure we will not need to bother Kermit with silly details about the show! We are all professionals and we can keep everything going well for just a few days, certainment?"

"Darn straight," Clifford agreed, clapping Fozzie on the shoulder. "Tell you what, Fozz: with both Kermit and Scooter gone, I'm sure I won't be able to be everywhere at once, so you be my eyes and ears, okay?"

"Oh, you bet! I'll be the most alert eyeballs and…and nosy ears you ever saw! I'll make sure nothing bad happens to da theatre, Kermit," the bear promised.

"Thanks, Fozzie. I'm sure everything will be fine," Kermit said, and pulled Piggy close for another hug and kiss right as the first boarding call sounded over the intercom. "Uh, I think that's our flight! You guys…don't let the penguins into the fly loft! And – and make sure Animal brushes his teeth; he scared that lady in the front row last week after his spinach soup! Uh – and make sure Robin does his homework, and—"

"Everything is under control, mon capitan," Piggy told him, with a withering glare at the other Muppets present. "I'll make sure of it."

"Safe flight, Kermit! Find us a great spooky cabin!" Fozzie called after the frog hurrying up to the security checkpoint.

"Find us a cheap cabin," Clifford murmured. He didn't wave like Fozzie did, but watched with them as Kermit passed security, gathered up his things and hastened on into the terminal. Piggy stood and watched until there couldn't be the least pretense that Kermit was still in sight, then sighed, tossed her silk scarf jauntily over her shoulder and turned to the others.

"Well! I certainly hope their trip is a success, and they find something properly scenic and rural," she announced, and led the way out. "It would be a nice change to actually start filming this thing on schedule."

"I hope they find one without too many bugs," Clifford mused.

Piggy paused. "Bugs?"

"Yeah. Or grisly histories, or bodies buried on the property, or moldy preserves left in the root cellar," Clifford continued. "You know, a lotta them places have stuff like that, for real. I just hope they don't pick something all creepy."

Piggy sniffed. "Apparently vous has forgotten this was supposed to be the set for a scary film!"

"I know! I'm just saying, I hope it's not too covered in dust and decay!" Clifford shook his head. "And it better have a bathroom! I really can not dig outdoor plumbing!"

"He better not," Piggy grumbled, trotting along, making her five-inch-heeled cranberry suede shoes look easy to navigate.

Fozzie didn't pay much attention to the discussion, still feeling disappointed by the announcement that he wasn't going to be the one running the Muppet Show this week. Does dis mean Kermit doesn't trust me to run things? But…but I've done it before! Suddenly he thought about singing firemen, bucket brigades, acts all onstage at the same time… Geez. Maybe…maybe Kermit's right to put someone else in charge. But…but Ma always says to use what I got, and do my best… yeah! Dat's it! I'll do such a good job dis week, da frog'll be impressed, and next time, I'll be da one calling da shots! Yeah! His mood lifting, Fozzie glanced ahead at Clifford, who was shaking his head in response to something Piggy had said. Sure, Clifford's a pro, but he doesn't get involved enough! I've been at da theatre longer and I know all da routines much better dan him! I'll show Kermit I'm bear enough to do dis! I'll have it all locked up, and tied down, and…and…

"Yo, Fozzie! Where'd you park the car?" Clifford asked, interrupting his internal pep talk. Fozzie stopped, staring out at the rows of cars: as he'd followed the other two along, lost in thought, they'd reached the front lobby of LaGuardia.

"What, you think I don't remember where I parked?" Fozzie demanded, and Clifford's head jerked back a touch.

"Nobody said that," Clifford protested. "Just wanna know which way to go, man."

"Oh," Fozzie said, embarrassed. "Right. I knew dat. Uh…it's…it's…" He turned slowly, looking out the windows, then stepping forward through the sliding doors. "Uh, it's…" Helplessly, he took off his hat, covering his eyes. "I forgot where I parked!"

Clifford shook his head. Piggy rolled her eyes. She took Fozzie by the elbow. "Come on, ya walking carpet. Lucky for vous I had Scooter install a tracking app for my phone!" Pulling forth her sleek little electronic guru, she tapped lightly a few times on the screen, and held up a simple map with a blinking dot. "This is the car, and that arrow says we should go…this way!" Confidently, she trotted across the cab pickup lanes, causing a loud screeching of brakes and at least one angry shout. "Oh yeah? Don't even pretend you didn't see me in this dress, buster!" With a haughty head-toss, she continued on to the short-term parking lot, the others hurrying in her wake.

Fozzie jammed his hat back on his head, disliking the traffic fumes immensely, eager to get back to the theatre…where, if luck favored him, he would get the opportunity to show the frog just how responsible and dependable this bear could be.

***

"Broadcasting to you from a dank cave far below the city streets, it's Monsters Tonight! Our guests tonight: the Luncheon Counter Monster! Famed journalist Walter Cranky, on the crisis in Dumptopia! Seventy-eight wriggling worms! And musical guests Footie and the Blowflys!" Snookie beamed at the applause, not at all happy about standing alone on this peninsula of a platform in a sea of audience monsters, but doing his professional best not to show his fear. They could sense fear, he well knew. Many of them treated fear as a preferred snack. "Aaaaand your amazing host, the clever, the talented, the debonair…" With a nervous glance at a large green thing with a fishy mouth leaning toward him in more than anticipation for the show, Snookie decided to skip ninety per cent of the intro Carl had written for himself. "Heeeeeerrre's Carl!"

"Hi, everybody!" the raspy-voiced creature yelled, bounding onto the stage and waving happily at the roar of approval which greeted him. "Is anybody hungry in here?" A louder roar; Carl suddenly grabbed Snookie by the arms and made as if to heave him bodily into the audience. Snookie shrieked, fighting; so did several monsters at the edge of the set, falling claws atumble over one another into a snarling furry heap. Carl laughed, plunking a shaken Snookie back onstage and smacking his shoulder in a pretense at friendship, grinning all the while. "Eh, you guys are such suckers!" Carl chided, and the audience laughed. Snookie hastily retreated to his chair off to the side of the main set, near the band, although he noticed one of the Mutations eyeing him in a way which made his felt crawl. Nervously slicking his hair back with one hand, Snookie wondered why on earth he'd agreed to this dangerous nonsense. Although he was supposed to be exempt from monster appetites for the next couple of weeks at least while the reality-daredevil show was running, he wasn't entirely reassured that every monster here would remember to obey that edict…

Carl stood on the short platform directly before the audience, hands on his stomach as he rocked slowly on his heels to deliver his opening monologue. "So! Did you guys hear about the monsters camped out under Wall Street? Hah…apparently they're protesting the fact that ninety-nine per cent of all humans refuse to be eaten by even one per cent of us!" Laughter. "Yeah, I even heard that Gorgon Heap was actually kicked out of his sit-in at a famous economist's house! I guess his name really isn't pronounced Warren Buffet!"

The monsters hooted and screeched. Snookie winced, trying to shrink down inside his sports coat. At least the spotlight was on Carl; heck, let him have it for once! Snookie had no desire to play McMahon to Carl's show-host fantasy. I can't believe it's come to this. Sweet Monty Hall, what fresh heck is this? His eyes wandered slowly around the set, from the mock-cave walls of the backdrop, dripping with phosphorescent lichen and studded with blind spiders in crazily-woven webs, to the crew of ubiquitous camerafrackles looking mildly amused as Carl rambled on with his grim jokes, to the white-jacketed band members leaning bored on their instruments, the drummer flicking his wrists for the occasional rimshot. Nowhere to run. He wondered, with a despair so familiar as to be almost comforting, whether anyone in the normal world even saw his shows anymore on this wretched station; it had been so long since anyone had allowed him to look at a newspaper, he had no idea whether his work was even being reviewed. This stuff has to be too terrible to even be worth a mention in a pan, he thought.

"Time for the Top Eleven!" Carl announced, stirring Snookie from his unhappy thoughts.

On cue, Snookie asked brightly, "Hey, any chance I can do the Top Eleven tonight, Carl?"

Carl snickered. "Be my guest, Snookie old pal!"

Snookie looked at the TeleMonSter screen just offstage, nearly choking to a halt before he even started when he saw the category. "Tonight's Top Eleven is…Ways a Short Yellow Muppet Can Be Prepared for a Low-Fat, Low-Sodium Diet!" If he'd been able to break into a cold sweat, he would undoubtedly have done so. Every monster in the room was staring at him…rather fixedly. He could feel Carl's wide smile behind him. His hands shaking so much he clasped them together across his chest, Snookie read unwillingly off the prompter: "Number One: Truss my arms and legs together, pour spider broth over me and slow-roast at two hundred and seventy-five for six hours!" Oh frog…I can't do this…I'm going to be sick…

"Hang on," one of the camerafrackles, a green-beaked thing with black eyes, muttered to another nearby. "I t'ought it was supposed to be read from da bottom to da top? And ain't it s'posed to be da top ten?"

The blue camerafrackle rolled his eyes, snorting so the feathery tuft atop his bony skull waved like a tiny pennant. "Sheesh. Don't you know nothin' 'bout show biz, monstah? This one goes to eleven!"

Snookie stammered out the next entry: "N-number Two: use the Forge Gorman panini press to make a tasty sammich that knocks out the fat!" Sporting enthusiasts in the audience familiar with the monster boxer-turned-chef chortled. "Number thruh—three…ugh…um…" Snookie glanced up, and saw well over a hundred hungry eyes, eyestalks, and unnamable compound visual collectors staring at him. He could feel his knees beginning to tremble, and fought to stay upright; falling down would not be a good idea on this set. "Uh…marinate me for two hours in Italian dressing and then pan-sear…" he gulped, his bland porridge lunch wanting to come back up. Carl edged closer and closer to him, and he didn't dare move away, as that would put him within reach of the audience instead. "Heh, heh, who writes this stuff? I hate Italian dressing!" he joked, but the monsters weren't amused.

"Four!" one yelled.

"Keep going, I'm writing these down!" another shouted, to appreciative laughter…and more than a little drooling.

Snookie threw a worried look at Carl, who was standing just over his shoulder, huge yellow eyes staring down and wide green lips stretched into a truly intimidating smile. "You can't eat me!" Snookie hissed at him. "I have to be on the Break a Leg set in two hours!"

"Keep reading, you wuss," Carl muttered in reply, his grin fixed in place. As Snookie, shivering, started to read off the next outrageous item, he felt a large paw on his head, and flinched. Carl was licking his paw and using it to smooth down Snookie's already-sleek hair, drawing laughter from the audience.

"Uh…Number Four: distribute me to the…the audience…because then no one will get more than a low-calorie bite…aaaghh!" He jumped when Carl put both furry-clawed paws on his shoulders, the monster's long thick neck dwarfing his body easily. Trying to shrug free of that loathsomely shaggy grip, Snookie protested aloud, "You can't eat me! I'm important around here!"

Howls from the audience - though whether of mirth, anger, or hunger, Snookie had no way of knowing. "Number Five!" Carl crowed, "Brown him in canola oil, drain, and sauté with onions and garlic for a wonderful stir-fry!"

Snookie tried to pull away from Carl, but the monster held his shoulders tightly while reading off the rest of the list. The audience clapped and cheered every time Snookie obviously attempted to wriggle free or looked distinctly uncomfortable, so finally he desisted, standing still except for a shiver he couldn't stop, listening to the sickening litany. "And finally, the Number Eleven way to cook Snookums here so that even picky Jane Frondah could enjoy his tastiness: Air-dry him for a day and bake him with spices, then toss over a spinach salad as little felt croutons! Thank you! Thank you! We'll be right back after these brilliant attempts to con you out of your money!" The crowd cheered, the feed went to a commercial, and Snookie collapsed in a yellow and plaid lump when Carl dumped him back into his chair.

The trumpet player blared in Snookie's face as the band launched into an instrumental version of "Nowhere to Run." Snookie, for once, couldn't manage his trademark wide smile. The audience seemed to think that was even funnier.

"And we're back! Our first guest tonight is known to many of you for his delicate appetites, which have landed him cover articles on Ghoulmet and Spooking Light magazines! Let's welcome…Luncheon Counter Monster!"

The band played "Owt rof Eat" as a rounded, scraggy-furred monster with purple hands and big yellow horns similar to Carl's shuffled out and waved briefly to the audience before climbing slowly into the padded chair nearest the host's desk. Carl glanced over his cue cards, tapping them on the desk. "So, hey, I understand you just go by 'Lunch' now? What, like Prince or Feist or something, you're going all artsy on us now?"

'Lunch' snatched the cards from Carl's paw, stuffing them into his wide red maw. "Hey!" Carl said, but since the crowd was laughing he decided to play along. "Here, you want something to wash those down with? They're kinda dry." He offered a glass of water to Lunchy, who promptly ate the entire glass. "Uh… So! You've just landed your own cable foodie show! Tell us a little about that."

Seemingly more interested in the objects around him, Lunchy ripped a chunk off of his chair arm and began wolfing it down. Carl tried to elicit an answer again: "I bet that's great fun for you, seeing as how you were at the forefront of the local-food movement back in the seventies, right?"

Lunchy broke a corner off Carl's desk, crunching it loudly. Snookie, far enough away from the ravenous monster to feel somewhat secure – at least until the thing had worked its way through the rest of the set – took what comfort he could in Carl's annoyed expression. "Hey, c'mon Lunchy, I just had this set built!" Hoots and chortles in the audience. Carl shoved the hungry beast away from the desk, and without a pause the monster started on the coffee table instead. "So, I take it you prefer wood products?" The other glass of water on the table vanished down the vast black throat. "Uh…or is glass tastier?" Carl glared at the audience. "Tell you what, since Lunchy seems to have missed all seventy of his regular feedings today, let's move on to our next guest! We've all seen him covering major breaking – or broken – stories on GNN, and now here he is: please give a loud round of boos for veteran Grouch Walter Cranky!"

A chorus of unhappy sounds came from the audience as the grey-furred Grouch in a sloppy, stained suit slouched unhappily onstage and plopped himself onto the other guest chair. The band, oddly, blared out a few bars of Chicago's "Make Me Smile." Cranky glared at the band, then the crowd, then Carl. "Grrrrr!" he snarled, and the crowd went wild.

Carl's grin turned sour, displeased to see his thunder stolen on his own show. "Well, it's a real downer to have you here, Walt!" he snapped. The Grouch leaned forward, dismissively gesturing at the Big Mean Host.

"Grrrrr!" he added for clarification.

"Hey, I didn't book you! I've never been a Grouch fan – you guys think you have the monopoly on bad moods!" Carl complained, and the Grouch shrugged, looking smugly pleased.  
"Grr," he offered neutrally.

Lunchy broke off another chunk of Carl's desk, startled when the monster host slapped his hand away. Grumbling, Lunchy turned around to eye the Grouch curiously, but flinched back when the veteran GNN anchor snarled at him.

"Well, whatever, it's not like I care. I'm only having you on the show tonight to tell us about the growing problem in the grandest City Dump of all! Is it true, Walt, that Grouches are leaving the dump by the truckload because they don't want to be aligned with the monsters here at MMN?" Carl demanded.

Snookie shook his head, crouched in his chair, forgotten by all for the time being and happy to keep it that way. Good grief: a monster interviewing a Grouch for a late-night talk show taping. What's next, a bunch of female goons chatting up a kaffeklatch and calling it 'The Grue'? He dared a look at the back door of this particular studio, but at the moment there was a large squirming puddle of what appeared to be violet-and-puce worms between him and possible escape from this insanity. With a frustrated sigh, he settled farther down into his chair, watching the weirdness on-set.

"Grrr-arrrr! Grrraaahhh!" Cranky argued, and the audience booed, which only made the Grouch more pleased with himself. Carl threw his paws in the air.

"Oh, come on! Just think of the chaos! While all the people of the city are running around like headless humans, just think how much garbage they're going to leave strewn all over the streets! You can't tell me Grouches won't like that! Am I right?" Carl demanded of the crowd, and they cheered and pumped fists and claws and…things…into the air. Carl yanked his mike cable away from Lunchy, to no avail: the hungry monster swallowed the whole thing, foot by foot, like spaghetti. "I mean, why wouldn't you all want to be on our side when the big night arrives?"

The Grouch snorted, shaking his head. "Grrrr!"

Lunchy polished off the table, making Cranky shoot him a puzzled look. Carl tried to draw him into the discussion: "What do you think, Lunchy? Shouldn't the Grouches all want to pledge their allegiance to us monsters now, while the plan is still in motion? I don't think the boss is going to be too happy with anyone who tries to join in at the last minute since we need all the able, frightening bodies we can get ri—hey! Don't eat that, you idiot!"

The small blue-scaled monster which had been attempting to affix another mike to Carl's fur squonked as it disappeared, mike and all, down Lunchy's throat, the purple hands stuffing the kicking feet eagerly all the way inside. "Umf…umf…umf!" Lunchy munched, his slurps amplified suddenly by the still-live mike.

"Grrr!" Cranky objected, though Snookie wasn't sure to what. To this entire farce, if he has any brains, Snookie thought, managing a small smile.

"Now stop that! We're talking about the monster revolution here!" Carl scolded Lunchy, but jerked his finger away from that snapping mouth before anything happened to it. "Can't you focus for one simple second? You don't even eat anything good, like cute puppies, or woodland critters, or game-show-host Muppets!"

Unperturbed, Lunchy picked up his chair, turned it this way and that a moment, then began ripping hunks of stuffing out of the seat and stuffing his mouth instead. "Oh, for crying out loud! That's it! Get off my set! This is my big show and I won't let it be ruined by some sloppy, indiscriminate trash compacter! Get out!" Carl yelled at Lunchy, waving his arms over his head. Lunchy cringed, but then turned around and gulped down the camera a frackle had eased in close to get better reaction shots. The frackle yelped and ran off before he could become the next course. Snookie ducked below the edge of the chair, hoping the glutton wouldn't wander over this way. "Argh! Stay with us – seventy-eight squirming worms, up next!" Carl yelled, and the feed once again cut to commercials. Snookie didn't want to speculate on what products could be advertised to an all-monster audience…assuming there were any at home watching this, since more monsters than he'd ever seen in one place before seemed to throng the bleachers beyond the stage. Maybe they'd all be home by the time the show actually aired. He had no idea what time of day it even was, trapped in this perpetual underground gloom.

"Grrr ahh arr, grarr, graaah," Cranky said in a thoughtful tone.

Carl's jaw dropped; it took him a second to put it in motion again. "What? Now that the camera's off, now you got something to say?"

The Grouch shrugged, and gestured at Lunchy, who was almost done eating the second camera, the green frackle manning it having been a little too slow; one flailing green hand stuck out of Lunchy's mouth before the monster tossed a chunk of electronics in on top of it. "Grrr! Grrrrr grrrr!"

"Oh," Carl said, cocking his head to one side. "Yeah, I see your point. Sorry about that. I'm not kidding, though! You Grouches really need to pick a side here and fast, or it's not going to be fun and trash for you much longer!"

The worms startled Snookie as they crawled over him and around him to get onto the set; with a choked cry, he staggered out of his seat, shuddering, flinging stringy crawlers everywhere. One landed on Lunchy's leonine nose, getting his attention; he plucked it off, slurping it, then perked up happily. He sniffed, turning to find the origin of the tasty morsel. Carl and Cranky looked over at the noise to see Snookie dancing crazily, trying to shake the worms off his jacket, his nose, and his shoes. Cranky frowned, and jerked a thumb at the Muppet.

"Grrrr!" he complained.

"Who, him? Nah, no need to worry, he's not going anywhere," Carl grinned. "Listen, why don't we talk more about this soon as the break is over? I know the boss would really like to hear why Grouches don't want to hop on the bandwagon here, when there's so much great trash you could be in for if you guys just—"

"Aaaagh!" Snookie yelped, tripping backward over a mass of fleeing worms as Lunchy lunged at him, mouth stretched wide.

The floor director signaled the end of commercial, the band flubbed "New York, New York" because they were all trying to stumble away from the wildly gulping Lunchy and play at the same time; a trombone was lost to the gullet. "Welcome back!" Carl said, trying to keep the mood upbeat. "I'm talking with Walter Cranky here about Grouch participation in the upcoming Event you all are waiting for with baited breath…all the better to catch something, hah hah!"

"Grrrr!" Cranky said.

"Oh, drat it! Not the worms!" Carl smacked a fist on what was left of his desk, seeing the last of the worms slucked into Lunchy's lips. "Dang it, Lunchy, can't you just find something to eat over there that isn't on my guest list?"

Snookie shrieked as the monster grabbed his arm. Frantically, he pounded on its floppy face with his other fist until the ravenous creature caught his hand between those implacable jaws and began pulling him in with every large bite along his arm. "No! No! I'm hosting ten other shows! I have a no-being-eaten agreement in effect! Let go! Auughhh!" Desperately, Snookie shouted at Carl, "Do something!"

Carl shrugged, garnering laughter from the audience. "Hey, Babe? Babe's our director," he told the crowd.

A tinny voice replied over the in-studio intercom: "Yeah, Carl?"

"Can you throw down some nonessential personnel and lay a trail out of the studio for Lunchy? Oh yeah…and bring some castor oil?" Carl blinked at the sight of Snookie, terrified, gulped into Lunchy's apparently limitless stomach. "Make that a lot of castor oil." He grinned at the cheering audience. "He wasn't kidding. He really does have other jobs around here!"

"Grr?" Cranky asked, turning away from the carnage before the bass player Mutation followed Snookie down the hole, purple hands flailing and the dissonant note of the bass being crunched, strings twanging between thick teeth, audible throughout the room.

Carl chortled. "Oh, you know…sidekick for me, host for some stupid game shows, token Muppet-to-be-tormented when things are slow around here…" He grimaced. "I hope Lunchy's drool doesn't ruin his hair, though! I was really hoping to work a nice glaze into that next month for the cookoff!"

"Grrrr!"

Carl shot the Grouch an annoyed look. "Well of course it doesn't matter what Snookie hears! He's definitely not going anywhere!" He turned his gaze to Lunchy, who was waddling offstage, lured by a couple of unhappy little spider-crabs forced to scuttle just ahead of him. Carl snickered. "Except maybe to the sewage treatment plant to get a disinfectant bath after that!"

The audience howled in delight, and Carl beamed, relaxing. Maybe this would be a good vehicle for his many talents, after all. He produced a cue card Lunchy had somehow missed. "Next up: the musical stylings of the worst band in the drainage pipes of all five boroughs: Footie and the Blowflys! We'll be right back." With a flourish, Carl snapped the card like a Frisbee through the fake portal-to-the-netherworld behind his chair, and the soundfrackle played a breaking-glass noise.

"Grrr!" Cranky said, shaking his head in disgust.

"Whaddaya mean it's funnier when that human does it? At least I don't wear a toupee!" Carl protested. "And my list goes to eleven!"


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. _In which Gonzo begins a monstrous friendship; maps are consulted; and Newsie and Rhonda are insulted._

"Hey! Hey, is anybody gonna bring me that sandwich?" Gonzo yelled; his voice echoed along the row of drafty cells hewn by disturbing large claw-marks from the bedrock. When no one responded, he sighed, leaning against the bars. Sheesh…it's not like I specified no red M&Ms or something! It's just a lousy pastrami and cotton candy sub on toasted garlic bread! He was terribly hungry, and had requested the light supper from one of the odd monsters who worked here over an hour ago. "Not what I'd call five-star service," he grumbled. "Oh, well…"

He squeezed his nose, then his shoulders, then his feet between the rusty iron bars of the cell, brushed off the resultant dust on his chicken-print flannel robe, and adjusted the Muppaphone-fluffball trying to come off of one of his slippers. "Hey! C'mon, we're bored too," the orange puffball complained.

"So let's go find some chow," Gonzo told it, and the slippers conferred in low tones a moment.

"All right. But Mildred wants a Shirley Temple. The air down here is so dry," grumbled the slipper, and Gonzo nodded agreement. The slippers thwopped against the hard floor as Gonzo picked a direction and headed along the corridor, until Gonzo, a little unnerved by the way the sounds echoed, asked them to thwop a little more quietly. "Everybody's a critic," the orange slipper muttered, but thereafter the two of them lowered their voices.

After what seemed like half a mile of twisting, confusing corridors, the smells of mold and decay gave way to something more appetizing. "Oh, hey," Gonzo murmured, sniffing excitedly. "Burgers and fries! Well…can't be picky, I guess. Maybe they'll have some anchovy sauce to put on 'em…" He picked up his pace, letting his nose take the lead, until a side passage opened up into some kind of huge communal room. Monsters and frackles and goblins bustled throughout, rushing past one another with papers, costumes, sobbing pigs or muffled hedgehogs, and paper cups of coffee brandished aloft. The food smells overlaid a general funk of wet, dirty fur. Gonzo stood in the doorway, eyes wide, trying to take it all in until a pink frackle bearing a tray of smoking ribs pushed him aside.

"Move it! One side! Ribs! Ribs are done!" it yelled, and eager monsters pounced, emptying the food and then devouring the metal tray as well. Undaunted, the pink frackle immediately hurried back out, presumably to fetch more vittles. Everywhere Gonzo looked, little TVs crammed every available flat surface and one sleeping monster's belly, all tuned to different channels. A large sign of molded brown plastic attached loosely to the longest beige wall proclaimed: MARKETING RESEARCH.

"Uh, excuse me," Gonzo said, but no one looked twice at him. He tried to tap the shoulder of a blue-feathered thing with eyestalks as it sloughed past like a slug. "Excuse me! Hey, uh—" The creature flicked an irritated eyestalk at him, but continued on its way. Fed up with rudeness, Gonzo took a deep breath and shouted, "FIIIRRRRE!"

The room ground to a screeching halt; the sign on the wall creaked and one end dropped several inches. Eyes of every conceivable shape, color, and level of malevolence glared at him. "Cool," Gonzo murmured. "I always wanted to do that."

The monsters grumbled and growled, returning to whatever they'd been doing, but one approached Gonzo curiously. "Gabba…frabba magga?" it wondered, gesturing back down the corridor.

"Oh, good, it's you!" Gonzo suddenly realized where he'd seen the fluffy mane of feathers before; the long horns, googly pink eyeballs, protruding tongue and fang overbite had reminded him of a theatre legend, but he'd been so excited about the talent show the last time it had slipped his mind to ask. "Uh, hey…aren't you Thatch McGurk?"

The monster shook his head, fluffy mane drifting over his eyeballs. "Ba habba fragga mugga blah!" it explained, then added in a more tolerant tone, "Frabba."

"Oh, your brother. Yeah, I guess you're right…he is a little shorter," Gonzo agreed. "Hey, I'm sorry to be a bother, but I'm really hungry. Is there anything around here I can…oh, cool, thank you!" he exclaimed when the monster handed him a fat burger on green buns in his broad, pink paw. Not wishing to be ungrateful, Gonzo nevertheless examined the meat gingerly, poking it with one finger; it didn't seem to be quite inanimate yet. "Uh…what kind is it? I'm allergic to kumquats and goat milk…"

"Grabba blagga. Frab-nagga," the taller, rosier McGurk said.

"Oh. I guess that's okay, then. Thanks." Gonzo chewed carefully, still not certain how digestible anything from Happy Harvey's might be, and looked around curiously. "So…what exactly goes on in here? Everyone looks so busy! Is this for a show?"

"Grah fabba malagga!"

"Wow. The whole network? Nice!" Gonzo nodded, and tried some of the fried radishes. "Hey, these aren't bad…got any anchovy sauce?"

"Ba kabba."

"Oh, well, sure, if you like being ordinary," Gonzo grumbled, and the monster shrugged. Resigned, Gonzo used a keg-pump at a nearby condiment station to pile some ketchup on a paper plate. Ketchup and something labeled "T.o.F." were the only options available. Gonzo pointed to the other small keg. "Uh, what's this?"

The monster explained the acronym, and Gonzo shook his head. "Really? I've never thought 'fear' really had a 'taste,' but whatever…to each their own, I guess." He munched his fries, following the monster over to a table where five small TVs blared out, respectively, the action-adventure program 'Gulliver's Anvils,' the original British version of 'Name That Fruit!', a pedigreed hog-calling show somewhere in Arkansas, one of the major networks' national news shows, and a program which seemed to be about the wacky adventures of a group of teenaged frackles living in an abandoned meat-packing warehouse. McGurk pointed out the MMN logo ghosting on the screen of the last one. "Oh…so that's what's on here right now?" He frowned, studying it a moment, trying to follow the storyline and tune the other, competingly loud televisions out of his hearing. "Huh…'Frackle Rock'?"

"Gah rabba bagga boo," the monster said proudly. He tapped the screen, then gestured at the others. "Frahgagga agga bo gagga banana fanna go bagga."

"A kids' show. Okaaay…so this is all about seeing what's competing with you guys every hour?" Gonzo asked, settling down on a chair which looked like it had fewer bite-marks on the seat than some of the others strewn around. McGurk continued to elaborate on the whole market-review process, and then indicated the bags of Happy Harvey's Hamster Burgers piled around this particular group of TVs; all around the room, other such groupings also had fast-food bags, infomercial cleaning products, dessert topping/floor cleaners, and various other products scattered around. In one corner, a group of tiny, furry brown goblins seemed to have built a fort with bricks of vacuum-packed bags of dirty towels. Gonzo blinked. "Huh…I always wondered what you could actually use those space-saver bags for… So you have to figure out how to get the best ads for each timeslot? And compare it to what the other stations are all doing? Sounds really…uh…great," he finished lamely, feeling sorry suddenly for the obviously weary monster.

McGurk sighed. "Zah…mabba."

Gonzo patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Could be worse." When the monster blinked all three eyes at him, Gonzo leaned in and offered, "You could be the guy who actually has to eat the burgers."

The monster laughed. At least, Gonzo was pretty sure that rasping, gargling noise was meant to convey amusement. Abruptly the monster let loose a sneeze which singed the hairs off the top of Gonzo's head. When the smoke cleared, Gonzo coughed, "Geshundteit."

"Frabba," McGurk thanked him. He sighed, looking around a moment at the bland but mold-stained walls. "Mugabba."

"Yeah, I can see how that might be bad. Try garlic and vitamin C."

The monster resumed staring glumly at the screens, then suddenly perked up and poked Gonzo's shoulder. "Boo habba!"

"My show? But they didn't say anything about me being on tonight," Gonzo said, puzzled. McGurk tapped the TV tuned to MMN, where a very drenched-looking Snookie Blyer was glaring at the camera, his grin looking rather forced.

"Do you love mayhem, maiming, and Auntie Mame? Does the prospect of prosthetic surgery make you quiver in antici…pation? Then welcome to another astoundingly foolhardy edition of – Break a Leg!" The audience roared. Gonzo's eyes widened as the monster judge panelists waved or smiled at the crowd, which seemed to all be monsters of various stripes…and solids, and plaids. "Tonight! After a stupendously ridiculous first round in which one of our contestants was nibbled to death by his own untamed animals, we'll throw another four idiots onstage to compete for fame, fortune, and having their hospital bills paid in full! First, let's say hello to our judges!"

"Oh," Gonzo said, "I get it. These are still the elimination rounds." McGurk muttered a correction, and Gonzo blinked. "Er…termination rounds. Right."

He settled in, grabbing an unopened bottle of Flat Cow soda he saw among the cases and boxes of junk products, and watched avidly as the second round began. The camera cut from a very shivery Shakey back to Snookie, caught offguard; hastily he tucked away the hand towel he'd been using to wipe off his nose. Traces of some sort of slime lingered in his dark hair and at the tip of one round ear. "Heh, heh, little accident with a garbage disposal earlier. So! Tonight, your death-inviting candidates for advancement are – from sunny Paraguay, Roberto the Magnificent!"

A large toucan with a tiny beak made a low bow upon the stage, then clacked the castanets on his wingtips as he struck a flamenco pose. "Spanish dancing? That doesn't sound too dangerous," Gonzo said.

"Except he dances on the backs of hungry albino alligators!" Snookie said, making Gonzo blink. "Next up will be Mistress of the Somewhat Grayish Arts, the mysterious Jasmine Fatwah!" A slinky, vaguely feminine figure swathed head to toe in black gown and headdress demurely stepped to the edge of the stage, then suddenly flung herself into the air; a smoke bomb exploded, veiling Mistress Fatwah in sooty clouds. When they evaporated, the performer was balanced daringly upon a dozen curved swords – all with the tips poking into her as she held a belly-dancing pose, head thrown back and weapons lightly touching her toes, her fingers, and various hidden but no doubt sultry parts of her anatomy.

"Holy Muppetanic Verses," Gonzo gasped, impressed.

"Garagga froo," McGurk sighed, looking dreamily at the TV.

"Assuming it takes less than half an hour to mop up the stage after that we'll move on to the karaoke warblings of the unmatched wrecker of redneck bars worldwide…" Snookie continued, popping out the tiny earpiece the producers had insultingly insisted he wear to make his cues every time, and inserting thick foam earplugs in both ears, "Jimmy Joe Bob Fred Ebeneezer McCoy!"

"Karaoke?" Gonzo shook his head. "I thought this was a stunt competition, not a singing show!"

"Thank yew," mumbled a lanky, overall-clad rustic with sleepy eyes and a straw hat pulled low over them. "In honor of this bein' National Jailbird Month, ah'd like t'serenade y'all with a sweet ballad… Buuuuuurrrn freeeee…freeee as thuh windoooooow…free as thuh glaaaass mowwwws…"

A hail of thrown boots, tomatoes, and entire seats greeted this taste of the singer's talents. McCoy staggered, keeling onto the stage, but managed to drag himself off. Snookie cautiously lowered the Kevlar-reinforced umbrella he'd hidden behind, checking to make sure no other objects were hurtling toward the stage. "And finally in this round, the daring dancer of death, Montrose the Mouse!" He looked around, perplexed. "Uh…is Montrose here?"

"Watch it, bub," a tiny voice squeaked. The camera focused in, finally picking up a miniscule brown field mouse with a yellow hardhat. He folded his paws over his chest, nodding at the camera. "You'll just have to wait and see. I promise you, I'm the most daring guy here!"

"And there you have it! Stay tuned and see which of these daredevils moves on to the next round…and which don't ever move again! Tonight – on Break a Leg!"

Commercials filled the screen. Gonzo turned to McGurk. "So…how'd you get this gig, anyway?" Shrugging, the monster went on a complicated verbal journey; Gonzo listened until the station returned to the program. "Okay…sorry…I do want to hear about the thirty-eight blue bufoes…but I really want to see what I'm up against. Tell me more next break?" he asked, and McGurk shrugged again, neutrally.

"So, B.D.! What are you looking for tonight with this group of stuntpeople?" Snookie asked, standing by the judges' table, somewhat less slimy-looking than before; apparently he'd had some success in drying himself off during the break.

The flat-headed blue monster grunted. "Eh…to be honest, Snook, I'm just not very impressed by anything I've seen yet. There's gonna have to be some serious limb-breaking and muscle-popping before I'm gonna be able to give a claws-up, ya know?"

"Heh, heh, such a picky guy! Hem? What's your take on these contestants?"

"Well, I'm trying not to be prejudiced, Snookie, but I have to admit, my money's on that Middle Eastern mystic right off the bat! She just seems so…so…" Behemoth rolled his vast eyes, trying to find the right compliment.

"Masochistically in love with sharp objects?"

Hem grinned. "You have such a nice way with words, Snookie!"

"Right…heh heh…and finally Shakey! Which act tonight are you particularly looking forward to?…Shakey?"

"Whoops, sorry," B.D. mumbled, and spat out a wet parcel of purple felt and red fur. "Thought he was part of that puu puu platter I ordered…"

Snookie smiled widely for the camera, and gestured grandly at the stage. "There you have it! Our judges are all aquiver at the possibility of serious mishaps! So let's get started!" He glanced surreptitiously at his cue card. "In the sunny jungles of South America, the biggest beaks in the jungle belong to none other than the tyrannical toucan tribe, who are renowned for their battles with howler monkeys, their uncanny ability to find sugar-encrusted breakfast cereals, and above all, their dancing! Here to demonstrate at least one of those vaunted skills, the incomparably tiny-beaked Roberto!"

The monster backup band, all decked in sombreros and colorful serapes, launched into a thrumming, sensuous flamenco, the guitar strummed skillfully by a four-handed monster with brown-and-orange fur and a pair of large square glasses on its long nose. A section of the stage floor slid open and six ravenous jaws clacked, the alligators churning the shallow pool beneath. With a loud "Olé!" Roberto the toucan leaped straight onto the head of one of them, his booted talons rapping a lively beat against the hard scales. Gonzo watched a moment while the bird danced, tripping gracefully from one snapping snout to the next. "Gah vibba vabba veebba," McGurk commented.

Gonzo nodded. "Yeah, I remember that game…'Pitfall', right? Except I never could get him to balance on the alligator heads right…whoops, speak of the devil…"

"And let's go to the judges! Hem, that has to be the shortest act we've seen so far! Thoughts?" Snookie asked, turning away from the closing pit with a light shudder, staying well clear of the water and mud spattered through the air by eagerly slapping albino tails in the feeding frenzy.

Behemoth shrugged. "Well, I dunno. It really didn't seem like he put his heart into it…except maybe right at the end there, when he put everything in! Too little too late, I say."

"Shakey?"

"Why d-does it always have to be ab-about eating somebody?"

"So that's two claws-downs! B.D?"

"Next," B.D. grunted.

"Well! Moving right along then, to our next contestant, the presumably lovely Jasmine Fatwah! Miss Fatwah, anything you'd like to tell the viewers at home before you perform for us tonight?"

"Gahhh," McGurk sighed, sinking into a blissful slump at the sight of the heavily veiled and robed figure as she brandished two swords in each hand, making Snookie jerk backwards out of her way as she strode onto the stage.

Gonzo smiled at the stricken monster. "Cute, huh?"

"Bee fragga mugga," McGurk murmured, eyes growing all hazy.

Gonzo nodded, returning his gaze to the TV, but not focused on it, his thoughts instead flowing back to the sight of a lovely young chicken at the Four-H displays at a fair upstate. How shy she'd been, how demure, embarrassed when Gonzo told her she was much better looking than the fussy showbirds who were actually competing. "Yeah…that's kind of how I felt the first time I saw her…my chickie, I mean."

"Ba?"

Gonzo sighed. "Well, see, there was this county fair I was called in to unstop the porta-potties at, and they had an exhibit hall, and there was a poultry competition…"

Onstage, Snookie gaped as the whirling, shrouded dervishess did something insane with multiple swords and her robes described a figure-eight in her high-speed twirling. "Holy Salmon Mushdie, I haven't seen that many near-misses with scimitars since the last Shriner's Parade in Paducah collided with the Moonshine Barfighting Street Racers! How long can she keep this up?"

Gonzo barely paid attention, lost in fond memory. "Camilla wasn't even competing, and she was way classier than any of those birds with their silly blue ribbons! So on impulse, I asked her if she'd share a wild-rice funnel cake with me, and she said yes." He smiled. "We spent the rest of the day walking around, riding the rides; she blushed so sweetly when I gave her a blue ribbon off a teddy bear I won by successfully shooting myself in one of those target-practice midway games…"

"Varagga," McGurk agreed. He cocked his feathery head sideways, two of his eyes blinking while one kept staring at Gonzo. "Phugga rah?"

Gonzo shook his head. "You think I haven't tried calling her? I can't get a signal down here! For a communications station, you guys really have lousy cell service!"

McGurk hesitated, glancing around; his fellow monsters were all preoccupied with their own TV-watching or eating. He slid an odd-looking device from under his fur and poked it at Gonzo. "This is a phone?" Gonzo wondered, puzzled; the thing appeared closer to a metal motherboard with pink day-glo rubber worms fused all over than like any phone Gonzo had ever seen. McGurk hissed at him, and Gonzo took it carefully into his hands, reluctant to touch it. "An iGrub? Well, okay…thanks…"

After playing with it a bit he discovered how the keypad worked, and tapped in Camilla's number. McGurk watched him with a hopeful expression. The ringing halted, and a lovely chicken voice cooed, "Baaawwwk?"

"Camilla, sweetie! Listen, I'm—"

But the voice was only a recording telling him she was busy and would the caller please leave a message after the cluck. He did. "Camilla, it's me! I'm sorry I haven't called before now… The show is fantastic! I really hope you're watching. They're still doing elimination rounds but they'll start audience voting on…" McGurk gurbled something helpful, and Gonzo shot him a thank you look. "On Wednesday, when I perform again! I really…I really wish you were here. Uh…anyway. Please watch, and, uh, I hope you'll ask everyone to vote for me, and…and…" He tried to think of something which would sound affectionate without coming across as pushy. "Uh…I just…just really wish you were here. Hope the show's going well there. Hi to everyone." At a loss, he hung up, stared depressed at the odd phone, and finally handed it back to the monster. "Thanks."

McGurk gave him a shrewd look. "Far hugga babba?"

"Well…we…we were close. For a long time. I don't really know what happened." Gonzo shrugged. "She started talking about nesting, but we already had a place together, you know? And…and she kept hinting at eggs, and, well…" He glared at McGurk. "If you were me, would you want to pass these genes on?"

"Er…agga…"

"I mean just look at my fingernails! They're always trying to ingrow!" Gonzo sighed. "We always got along so well together! Couldn't we just have, well…stayed like that?"

McGurk shook his head in sympathy. Gonzo sighed, turning back to the show on the TV. "Huh. See that? And Camilla always said no girl in her right mind would do what I do for a living…what do you call that then?"

Mistress Fatwah finished with a flourish, swords standing up on point in her outstretched palms, balancing on her toes on the tips of two more, with one quivering stuck in the stage floor directly beneath her, and one down her throat. "Well!" Snookie said, nervously adjusting his tie. "That was…ah…enlivening! Let's see how our judges rate that pulse-pounding and somehow deeply disturbing act!"

The judges clapped, showed claws-up signs, and eventually remembered to pull their fallen jaws up off the table and push their bugging eyeballs back into their sockets. "Looks like the suggestive swordswoman is penetra-er, advancing to the next round! We'll be right back after this word from our friendly sponsors!" Snookie shouted, mopping off his forehead, which apparently still bore some slime traces.

"Fraaaahh," McGurk groaned, melting into a small furry pool.

Gonzo leaned over, surprised. "I didn't know you could do that! Hey…wanna be in my act?"

***

"Okay, Cyrano, ya can quit writing love letters – she's yours already," Rhonda quipped, hopping up on a chair to see what the Newsman was working on. Long scrolls of papers were spread out and weighed down with various objects, covering his small desk, and the golden-felted reporter was chewing on the end of a pencil. He shot her an irritated glare, which she ignored, staring instead at the numerous blueprints. "Wow. I had no idea ConEd's stuff was so complicated. Ya know, that might explain why my neighbor always has cable even when all the fuses are blown again…"

"He's probably stealing it," Newsie grumbled. "Rhonda, I've been going over the plans for the sewers in the area the workers went missing, and this is very strange…"

"If the word 'selenium' comes outta your mouth, I am so out of here."

"What?"

"Never mind. So what is all this stuff?" Rhonda peered one way, then another, at the mazes of tunnels with obscure notations all over them, some part of the prints, some in pencil. "This can't all be the power lines. There's too much stuff."

"Right. Power," Newsie explained, tapping the sheet on top, then removing it to fully reveal another blueprint, "Gas," and he slid that aside for another beneath it, "Water…sewer…subway…abandoned subway…phone and cable lines…Rhonda, I keep lining them all up and studying them just in this one part of town, and feel like there's something I'm missing. Will you help?"

His expression was so earnest that Rhonda bit off the smart reply she'd automatically thought of, and joined him in peering at each sheet in turn, slowly comparing them to one another. "You're missing a blueprint," she said.

Confused, the Newsman flipped through each sheet, mumbling their designations under his breath. "Er…no, I don't think so. I've accounted for every single system underground. I specifically asked the registrars at City Hall for absolutely everything!"

"Then what goes here?" the shrewd rat asked, tapping an empty spot on the top sheet.

"Uh…that would be the space for the J train, I think…"

"No, it isn't. Look." Rhonda tugged the subway line map out, overlaying it with two others and struggling to hold them up to the bright makeup-table lights. "Gimme a hand, genius." When Newsie picked up the opposite corners, and they looked together at all of the maps lined up and overlaid, in the southern edges of Chinatown a long vacant space showed, every single line of everything veering abruptly around it. "Look. There, and there, and there," she said, pointing out with a well-manicured claw what seemed to be a number of large spaces all over the Manhattan map.

Newsie stared at that, then looked at his news partner. "Rhonda…you're amazing!"

She smiled. "How nice of you to finally get that. So what goes there? All those subway and sewer and power tunnels look like they're going around something big!" She peered closely at the overlaid maps. "Man, that's almost four blocks! You could fit a couple of U.N.s and the Museum to boot in that and still have room for every commuter on the B train! Are you sure it's not a disused subway terminal or something?"

"No…those are listed here…and don't copy this or pass it around to your rat friends," Newsie warned. "You wouldn't believe how much persuasion I had to use to even get it! I went on for twenty minutes about the possible threat to the whole city and the right of the public to know and my duty as a journalist to investigate and…"

"Ya bribed them."

Newsie blushed crimson. "Five hundred. Do not tell anyone!"

Rhonda regarded him with increased solemnity. "If you of all Muppets thought this was worth skewing the rules for…okay. I'm in. This could be big. Oooh…I hope none of the pencil-sucking leeches over at the Scandal have caught onto this yet…" she mused, and Newsie guiltily tucked his pencil away. She studied the odd empty spot present on every map, frowning. "Wonder how we get into that."

"Assuming it's not just a section of bedrock no one felt like drilling through," Newsie sighed, realizing they might be working themselves up over nothing.

"Goldie, you may actually have a story here. That's the exact same area the ConEd guys vanished?"

"Right here," Newsie said, unable to help a shiver as he pointed out the specific tunnel on the power-grid map. It abutted the mysterious blank spot in the Lower East Side.

"Do you have GPS coordinates for that?"

"Er…somewhere…" Newsie shuffled through the notes he'd been scribbling on the maps, and found the numbers. Rhonda tapped them into her phone. "What are you doing?"

"This way, when we're at the right spot, we'll know."

"Okay," Newsie agreed, then smiled at her. "You're coming with me?"

"Are you kidding? Goldie, baby, nose for news you may have, but you have no sense of dramatic presentation! I'll be there to direct the camera shots." She grinned. "An exclusive! We heading down tomorrow morning? I need to know so I can bring my galoshes."

"I thought that piece on the bacteria scare was pretty dramatic!" the Newsman huffed.

"Yeah, 'cause when I see you get pummeled by falling fruit, Shakespeare is the very first thing that pops inta my mind. Seriously. Leave the directing to me, okay?"

"So, how's everything going?"

Both Muppet and rat turned, startled, at the gravely voice of the station manager, Harlan Grosse Point Blanke. "Er…Mr Blanke!" Newsie mumbled, unsure what to say; the conversation he and the boss had engaged in last night after the Happy Harvey incident had been somewhat less than friendly. "Uh…I have the lab results here for the burgers…turns out the allegations may be true. The lab found approximately ten per cent gerbil byproducts in the burgers…" Newsie frowned, feeling queasy as he read the report Honeydew had faxed over earlier, and which he'd ignored until now in favor of the undercity research. "Er…also ten per cent mollusk, possibly from a volcanic sulfur vent…five per cent Bolivian steamshovel beetle…"

Blanke waved a dismissively large hand at him. "For heaven's sake, don't say any of that on the air! The company CEO called me at four this morning! Four! This morning! Does that sit well with you, Newsmuppet? Because I should tell you, it woke my wife up! And she had to come down to the study and drag me off of the couch to…er…" Suddenly changing topic, Blanke growled, "And I hope you're finished with that ridiculous report on missing homeless people! They probably just moved on when they couldn't panhandle enough to buy their liquor!"

"That's an unfair prejudice," Newsie protested. "Many of them honestly can't find work! To paint them all as opportunistic scam artists is—"

"Did I ask for your opinion? No! You don't do analysis, you just report! Is that clear?" Blanke demanded, towering over the much shorter Muppet.

Fuming, Newsie gritted his teeth in reply: "Yes sir."

"Good. Now, because our major sponsor withdrew their support due to your little act of insubordination last night, I am withdrawing your special reports budget for the foreseeable future." Blanke remained stonefaced while Newsie and Rhonda both blanched, then became indignant.

"You can't do that! We need a camera crew tomorrow! It's a potentially fantastic scoop and if we don't have the resources—" Rhonda began shrilly.

"This amounts to unfair punishment! If any establishment is cheating the public, even if they sponsor us, the public—" Newsie shouted at the same time.

Blanke waved his hands over them, irritated. "Enough! Shut up, both of you! No funding for your silly little Muppet expeditions! We need more hard news around here!" He thrust a sheet of copy at Rhonda. "You. Make sure he covers this tonight, or you're done as his producer. Got it?"

Silent, angry, they glared at the station manager as he stomped out, slamming the dressing-room door behind him. Rhonda blew out a heated breath and took a look at the ordered coverage. Grimly, Newsie muttered, "Hard news?"

Rhonda snorted. "Yeah, sure. If you consider a celebrity showing up late to the morgue to be of vital interest to the working public." She flipped the sheet up at him in disgust; Newsie caught it, read it, and dropped it upon his stack of story copy for the night's broadcast.

"Why am I covering that tonight? I'm only doing Muppet news; Joe's anchoring," Newsie complained. "I hate fluff pieces."

"But you'll read it anyway?" Rhonda asked, looking worried.

Newsie nodded. "I don't want you fired. You're the best director and reports producer I've ever had." He smiled wanly at her, and she sighed.

"I'm the only director and producer you've ever had, and if you even try to hug me I'll bite you. I am so mad right now!"

Newsie nodded, scowling at the closed door, then looking down at the blueprints. "Bring your galoshes tomorrow. We'll meet at the Canal Street Market at nine."

Rhonda blinked. "Uh…did I miss the part where bossman suddenly had a change of heart and pulled you with praise and gratitude into his arms and his pocketbook?"

"Tell Tony to meet us there, and bring low-light lenses or whatever you think we'll need for the tunnels."

"You mean Tommy. How exactly are you intending to steal the funding for this little venture?"

"I'll fund it," Newsie insisted, smoothing down his tie, trying to calm himself. "We need to look into this, Rhonda."

"What'll Blanke say?"

"I don't think there's anything in our contracts preventing us from going after a story on our own time with our own money, is there? He can't stop us!"

"Good point," Rhonda said, slowly grinning. "Hey, how did you do that teeth-gritting thing, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

"Newsie, you don't have—"

"Nine o'clock," he repeated, blushing, gathering up all the blueprints and rolling them safely into a protective metal tube. "Bring your…your gadget there."

"It's called a phone. Honestly…we moved past rotary dial a while back, Goldie." Rhonda paused, watching him tuck all his research into his private locker and secure it with a heavy combination lock. "What does Gina think of all this?"

"Oh," Newsie mumbled, realizing that was a conversation he didn't particularly wish to have, but should. "Er. Um. She…she believes in me…"

"Of course she does. That nose is not exactly imaginary. So she's okay with you chasing after possibly dangerous story leads in the sewers?"

"We'll go down the ConEd tunnel, not the sewer."

"Stop the wordplay. You know what I mean!" Seeing the journalist fidgeting, Rhonda shook her head. "She doesn't like it, huh?"

"She…she seemed to think I might be extrapolating my hunches a bit much," Newsie admitted.

The rat brushed back her blonde waves, considering his best approach. "Well, why don't ya tell her…it's for the good of the public? Or that this could be a big story? Or that this could finally be the one that makes you permanent anchor – or even nabs you better offers from the big boys uptown?"

Embarrassed, the Newsman picked up his copy and shuffled through it, although he knew every story in the pile. "I doubt that. And I'm not doing this for fame, Rhonda."

The rat sighed, and patted his shoulder before jumping down from the chair. "I know ya don't. Makes ya even more of a pain in the tuchis to work with, since I can't appeal to your vanity."

Newsie lifted his head proudly. "All my satisfaction comes from doing my job right."

"Why don't ya just tell her to come with us, then?"

That might work. Newsie brightened. "That's a great idea! But…" Immediately worried, he added, "But what if it's dangerous? What if…what if there really are monsters down there? Rhonda, I did see those freaks from the hospital go down the drain!"

"Again with the monsters," Rhonda groaned. "Newsie! There are no monsters living in the undercity! And besides…I seem to recall seeing a photo of one tabloid journalist hung by his heels by your sweetiepie. I think she can handle herself if things get weird, okay?"

"I'll…I'll talk to her about it tonight," Newsie said, and Rhonda smiled.

"Good. And bring two grand in cash." At the startled look on the Muppet's long face, Rhonda frowned. "What? You think Tommy'll take something he'll have to declare on his taxes for doing something potentially messy under the table? I'll set it up, but you're gonna have to keep that offer of payment!"

"Fine," Newsie growled.

Nodding, Rhonda started to leave, but shot over her shoulder, "Oh…and you have a spot of mustard on your tie. You're due on set in five." She grinned when the anxious Newsman turned to his mirror behind her, skewing his jaw this way and that, trying to see the nonexistent stain. "Ha. Not vain my butt…he is anchor material!"

Blanke had barely returned to his office when his private line rang, the one his secretary was not allowed to answer. "Blanke here," he grunted importantly, then turned pale and slowly sat down. "Uh…yes. Of course I did." He listened, growing more uneasy by the second at the low, sibilant voice on the other end. "Absolutely! We can't have irresponsible…" He swallowed when the voice cut him off curtly, and listened in silence another minute. "No, no, don't worry about that! I just cut his funding, as a matter of…" The voice turned deeper, sleeker, and Blanke felt cold beads of sweat breaking out across his brow. "No, no. Nothing to worry about, I'm on top of…" The line went dead. "It," Blanke finished, and stared at the phone before softly hanging it up.

He sat at his desk, fingers tightly interlaced, thinking, worrying. Finally he buzzed his secretary. "Gladys? Uh…I'm going home. I don't feel well. Thank you, I'm sure it's just that cold bug going around. I'll see you tomorrow." Hastily he shoved his hat on his balding head, picked up his briefcase, and left, forgetting his coat, his mind swirling with uncertain fears, and the threat of his job loss feeling like a razor-edged pendulum swinging ever closer above him in that story…Stephen King or someone, wasn't it? Right…get a grip, Harlan, you're doing just what you're supposed to, for the good of the network. For the good of the parent company! That's all that matters here.

That, he thought suddenly, chilled further, and his own neck. That mattered very much to the man who'd never even told his employees about their new parent company. As long as everyone did what they were supposed to, everything would go as normal, and no one would lose their job…especially him. Full of a sense of his own indispensableness, Blanke hailed a cab to go home, resigned to a long drive through heavy traffic.

He didn't like taking the subway. Not anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN. _In which Camilla and Piggy bemoan the foibles of men; and an expedition into the undercity ends in a nasty surprise._

The maître-d' quirked one perfectly plucked eyebrow, but then coughed discreetly, gaining the chicken's attention. "Ahem. Miss the Chicken, is it not? Mrs the Frog told me to expect you."

Camilla clucked quietly at him, and allowed him to take her faux-fox stole; he tried to hide his unease when one of the stuffed fox heads snapped at him. "I'm so sorry. Please, follow me, Ms the Chicken." Camilla bobbed after the smoothly weaving man among the tables and then along a series of more private booths until they reached an intimate room separated from the restaurant by curtained French doors. "Right this way, Ms the Chicken," the mâitre-d' offered, holding open a door for her.

Piggy reclined by a toasty fire, which at first surprised Camilla, but then she realized that of course Piggy would have ordered the hearthside room for this little tête-a-tête. The blaze in the rustic brick fireplace was a welcome treat after walking through the cold street on this overcast Tuesday morning, and the chicken gladly settled into the plush armchair opposite Piggy's divan, clucking a greeting.

"Oh! Camilla! I'm so glad you could make it – kissy, kissy! Though of course I would have stayed for the spiced persimmon coffee cake regardless, ah ha ha ha!" Miss Piggy exclaimed, beaming. The firelight made her look absolutely radiant even though the pig wore what she no doubt would modestly disclaim as "some old thing she threw on," a silkily draping burgundy velvet pantsuit and an embroidered, tasseled wrap which now lay casually over one shoulder and the back of the divan. Camilla reflected ruefully that Piggy had aged more attractively than she herself, through the decades both had been in show business…and the chicken knew those rumors of plastic surgery were completely false in the diva's case. She felt suddenly very conscious of the shadows under her eyes, and hoped the eye cream she'd hastily applied before venturing out of the nest this morning was working. "Bukawk?" she wondered, eyeing the artful arrangements of candlesticks, sprays of dried berries and miniature pumpkins upon the table. A steaming teapot already graced the settings of fine china, and Piggy poured for them both.

"I hope you like spiced chai…honey?" Piggy asked. Camilla giggled at the pun, and for a moment Piggy seemed like a schoolgirl sharing a silly secret, giggling as well. Camilla stirred a spoonful of wildflower honey into her teacup with her beak and sipped: the tea proved very good indeed, the perfect mix of exotic, warming spices and wake-you-the-heck-up black liquid. Piggy smiled. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of ordering just a few things. I never want anything too heavy in the mornings…"

"Bawwwk," Camilla agreed, shrugging, and Piggy picked up a glass bell and rang it delicately. The door swung open and two waiters swiftly set a feast upon the table before vanishing once more. "Bok bok," the chicken observed, her eyes widening a little at the variety and quantity of delectables crowding the floral arrangements for space. Silver-dollar-sized corn and pumpkin pancakes with warm ginger syrup, zucchini fritters with veggie sausages, crêpes smothered in apple compote, a tray of selected cheeses and another of sliced apples and pears and pomegranate seeds were just the dishes Camilla could identify by sight or smell. A twig basket of tiny muffins and a small sugar pumpkin with the lid sliced through also festooned the feast. This was a few things? Suddenly Camilla understood why Kermit always made that scrunchy face when Piggy was going over a plan for a party…

"Oh, I had the kitchen make that especially for vous. It's one of Kermie's favorites but I thought perhaps it would appeal to your taste as well," Piggy explained, indicating the pumpkin. Camilla plucked off the lid, and a glorious tangled scent of fragrant maple oatmeal and larger, crunchy-white things struck her nostrils, making her hungrier than she thought she was. "They're…ahem…cinnamon-toasted grubs."

"Bawwwwk," Camilla cooed, touched. How thoughtful! She hesitated, however, cocking her head sideways at the pig. "Bawk. Bukawk bok bawwwk?"

"Wellll…" Piggy said, then dropped the coyness to launch right into her reasons for inviting the chicken to a private brunch. "I was thinking it has been so long since vous and moi simply had a little time for girl talk together…and I know there have been some important changes in your life this year." She was pleased when her frank look was met by an equally direct stare from Camilla. "I know you've been…a little distracted of late, and I thought perhaps we could talk about it, over a little nibble, of course." She smiled. "No reason we can't enjoy ourselves when the menfolk aren't around!"

"Bawk," Camilla shrugged. She sipped her tea, and sighed. "Buk bukawk bok bok buwwwk."

"Of course he's an idiot," Piggy agreed at once. "I could've told you that years ago!"

They both laughed, and Camilla relaxed. They started in on the food, slowly at first, then eagerly munching, tasting treat after autumn-rich treat, taking their time to enjoy it all before they worried about a serious discussion. Camilla had always liked that about Piggy: she understood that difficult subjects were easier to tackle on a satisfied stomach. Under that polished showgirl there's a farmgirl at heart, Camilla thought, pleased.

"So, let me see if I understand your view," Piggy said when they'd sated the first rush of hunger; both continued to leisurely chew or peck the pancakes and crêpes. Camilla daintily washed down her bite with more tea, and Piggy obligingly poured for her again. "Vous are at the stage in life, if vous will excuse moi's directness, when it has come to your attention that we girls are only given a certain number of eggs?"

"Baaawk," Camilla said, shrugging.

"And, naturally, you made the very understandable suggestion to Gonzo that perhaps the two of you begin considering potential nest sites?"

"Bukawwwk." Camilla gave Piggy a shrewd look; she'd never considered that Piggy might have had similar thoughts about domesticity. She'd always struck Camilla as being more May diva than June Cleaver.

"And what did he say?"

Camilla sighed in frustration. "Buk ba-kawk bok buk buk bawk!"

Piggy rolled her eyes. "Sheesh. You wonder sometimes how they remember to breathe, they're so dense!"

Camilla clucked a sharp laugh, but then launched into a lengthy diatribe, explaining exactly how she'd progressed from dropping broad hints about eggs to showing Gonzo her developing brood patch under her breastfeathers to outright telling him to tear himself away from the latest episode of "I Can't Believe I'm Still Alive!" to have an adult conversation…all to no avail. Piggy listened intently, quietly snacking on a fistful of black grapes. Occasionally she interrupted: "And he didn't get it?... He thought the bare skin was cute?... Oh boy. He's even dumber than I thought." When Camilla finished her depressing litany, Piggy was silent a long moment, cutting off a hunk of veggie sausage and chewing thoughtfully while the chicken pecked listlessly at her last grub.

"It seems to moi," Piggy offered at last, "that your demands were quite reasonable. After all, vous and Gonzo have been together a long time now…almost as long as Kermie and moi…" Camilla refrained from pointing out she and Gonzo had been dating before the frog actually admitted he couldn't live without that specific pig in his life. "And, well, we're not getting any younger, though I have to say your feathers are even more thick and luxurious than they were when you came to the theatre, dear." Pleased, Camilla ducked and clucked, but Piggy pressed on: "So if you really want a nest…and you must have that weir—er, artiste – for your significant other, then tell him!"

Camilla blinked. "Buuuuk…bukawk!"

Piggy was surprised. "You…told him you needed space, and all he does is pester you about his ridiculous daredevil act?" She snorted. "Thick as a brick! All right, Camilla, dear…although I cannot fault your decision to back away for a while and hope he grows up a bit…it's not going to work."

"Bawwk?"

"Trust me. I know men, and whatever Gonzo is, he's still a guy. They all want to be teenagers forever, and they all think domestic life equals a loss of freedom!" Piggy shook her head, and stuffed a raspberry muffin in her mouth, taking advantage of her longstanding association with the chicken to chew and talk at the same time. "You're gonna have to spell it out for the knucklehead! Let him stew for a while, and when he says he wants you back – and believe me, he does, you're the only woman who puts up with him! – then you explain the facts of eggs to him." Piggy suddenly wondered if the chicken actually wanted the freak to fertilize those eggs; shuddering, she decided she didn't want to even ask.

Camilla pulled out her cell phone. "Bawwwwk buk buk buk…"

"He did?" Piggy blinked. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him around the theatre in a while. Where is Captain Bizarro, anyway?"

Camilla told her about the daredevil talent show, described the Triple Lindy Sushi Roll (which made even the unflappable pig wince), and then played the message Gonzo had left on her voicemail last night while she was splashing idly in the chickens' solar-heated birdbath in the remodeled poultry dressing-room. Piggy snorted loudly. "He wishes you were there? Good grief, how selfish is that? Oh, dear," she said, her tone softening at the look of distress on the chicken's face. "Camilla, darling, sweetie…it isn't all bad…he did say he missed you."

"Bawwwwk," Camilla groaned, staring down at her phone, depressed.

Piggy reached across the table, taking the chicken's wingtips in her gloved hands. "Well, perhaps more drastic measures are called for. Did you try returning his call?"

"Bawwk bawk buk beeeek!"

"Figures. Kermit seems to find the only dead spots for cell coverage in Manhattan all the time too," Piggy muttered. "Well…then my advice to you, woman to woman, is go ahead and vote for him in this silly competition. That way he'll realize you do still support his…ah…performance ventures. If he realizes you're not wanting him to give up being an id—ah, I mean, to give up show business, ha ha…perhaps he'll grasp that a compromise would be in his best interest as well as yours, for both your happiness' sake."

"Bawwk," Camilla agreed, mulling it over. Perhaps Piggy had a good strategy there: lead by example, and make Gonzo realize he was the one being foolish?

"Do you want him to give up performing?"

Camilla shook her head. "Bukawk!" Calming herself, she explained further: "Baaawk…buk buk."

Piggy snorted again, trying not to burst out laughing. "No, I don't think flaming motorcycle jumps over rabid squirrels would be good for anyone's family plans!"

They both began giggling, then chuckling, then guffawing. Outside the private room, a passing waiter heard the loud clucking and snorking, and wondered just what sort of clientele had stopped in this morning…although it couldn't possibly be stranger than the sheep socialite knitting tea circle every Wednesday afternoon…

"Oh dear," Piggy gasped, wiping her eyes, her cheeks rosy in the soft firelight. She grinned at Camilla. "So…anyway…be patient…to a point. Give him the opportunity to realize he's an idiot, and show him you can be the grown-up. Believe me, if he has any shame at all –granted, that's questionable, we are talking here about the guy who wears pink glittery Spandex – but if he does, he'll come back all sorry and thank you for being so supportive of him while he was off indulging his inner little boy. Er, weirdo. Whatever he was as a kid, you get my drift."

Camilla nodded. She sipped her tea, running through in her mind the conversation she and Gonzo would need to have. Would he finally understand she didn't want to curtail his love of danger, of adrenaline, of ridiculous skintight outfits (actually, she rather enjoyed the skintight outfits)…she only wanted him to understand it was important to her that he survive those outrageous stunts, not just for her sake, but for a family; that she wanted a family with him. "Bok bok bawk," she mused aloud, and Piggy spluttered, tea nearly going up her nose.

"Oh, sure. They'd have your feathers but his schnozz," she grumbled, and Camilla crowed joyfully, amused at the pig's clear reluctance to even imagine the lively products of that union. "And you'd better not say anything about figs or progs!"

That set them both off again, and it was several minutes of hilarity later before Piggy summoned the waiter for a fresh pot of tea. "Now tell me…has Mitzi really forgiven Blackie for that public tryst with Goosie Gander?" Piggy asked as they resettled themselves. Camilla snickered, and launched into all the latest backstage gossip, and brunch dragged pleasantly into a late lunch without either of them caring a feather.

***

Gina looked up at the gloomy sky with some apprehension, feeling completely in agreement with Rhonda as the rat grumbled, "You had ta pick a rainy day for this!"

"The power-line access tunnel is very close to the surface, and all the gutters should divert rainwater to much lower levels," Newsie argued, tugging up his rainboots; he hadn't heeded Gina's advice to purchase new ones a few months back, and these had an annoying tendency to slide down his shins. "Even if it actually rains, we should be fine."

"This weather is messing with my perm already," Rhonda complained, although none of them could even see said perm under the large, fashionable slouch hat she wore. Her London Frog coat looked slick enough to stop any water from drenching her. Newsie and Gina had matching russet trenchcoats and tall Wellington boots, and Gina had brought a mini umbrella and some other gear in a small backpack. Newsie fidgeted with his notepad and a pencil stub, checking his watch.

Gina asked, "Newsie, are you absolutely sure the ConEd guy is going to allow us down there? Isn't this supposed to be restricted?"

"Their workers refuse to even go in this tunnel for routine inspections now," Newsie said. "They're more than happy to let us go check it out."

"Wait…so we're going to be alone down there? No guide?" Gina asked. She crossed her arms and frowned down at her investigative love. "First I've heard of that."

"Er," Newsie gulped.

Rhonda shook her head. "Look, here comes Tommy. Even he beat your contact here."

"Uh…excuse me! Hello!" Newsie called out to a man in a white hardhat and a reflective vest as he wandered by, looking somewhat lost. "ConEd?"

"Yes," the man answered gruffly, then stared at the Newsman and the odd crew with him. "Uh…you're not…"

"The Newsman, KRAK. This is Rhonda Rat, my senior producer, my camerasloth Tony…"

"Tommy," Rhonda muttered.

Before Newsie could introduce Gina, the bearded, dubiously-scowling man gave her a sharp look, clearly not pleased with her multiple earrings and fierce expression. "And what does this little girl do for you?"

Gina put one hand possessively on Newsie's shoulder. "I'm his bodyguard for this expedition. Someone needs to make sure we're safe, since I hear your company is too scared to send an actual guide with us!"

The worker laughed, though he didn't sound amused. "Nice. Little bit of 'Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' for ya there, shorty?"

"Are you gonna let us in or what? We need to see the place where your people supposedly saw things. Or would you like us to tell the public that ConEd doesn't care about it's own workers' safety?" Rhonda growled.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get your whiskers in a snit. This way," the worker snapped, and headed for a manhole in front of a long open display of exotic melons and pickled squid and other, less-recognizable Oriental items common to this busy Chinatown street.

Scowling deeply, Newsie muttered to Gina, "How did this jerk even know you have a tattoo like that?"

She stifled a laugh. "He doesn't. Don't worry about it." She smiled at him, and ruffled his windblown hair. "And don't let idiots get you down. For a Muppet, you're actually kind of tall, you know."

"Tall enough for you?" he mumbled, casting a discomfited glance at her as they crossed the street after the ConEd worker.

"Definitely. Among other things," she whispered in reply, bending over so her lips brushed his ear; Newsie fought back a blush, pleased nonetheless.

When the four of them, in various stages of mood, reached the manhole, the worker wrested the cover off with a special crowbar and waited impatiently. "When you reach the bottom, turn left at the fork and go about three blocks south. That's about where those guys said they saw an intruder."

"Their report didn't say intruder," Newsie pointed out. "They claimed to have seen some thing moving in the tunnel. And numerous others have filed reports about hearing strange sounds down there!"

"Believe me, you guys weren't my first choice to go clear out whatever bums are tryin' to squat down there, but the cops seem to be too busy to bother with it," the worker snorted. "If whoever's down there is armed, I suggest you pack up your pretty little camera crew and get out…bodyguard and all." He sneered at Gina.

Newsie wanted to kick the man's knees, but he felt Gina's light touch upon his shoulder and settled for his fiercest patented glower. Gina gave the man a thin smile. "I'm sure, in that case, the civil suit will find in our favor against the neglectful utilities company who failed to provide adequate security in their own access tunnel. I assume you'll be leaving the manhole open?"

"No, but I'll be here. Regulations." The worker practically spat out the reply. "Ever since some idiot stole our barricades one time and some bohunk tourist fell in, we have to keep a man on watch whenever anyone's underground. Just take your little expedition through there fast. Unlike what you've heard, I don't actually love being paid to sit around and do nothing. So chop chop."

"You've been such a gracious help," Rhonda sniffed. "We'll be sure to mention you by name, Mr Grubber."

"That's Gubler!" the worker barked.

Rhonda showed her teeth in a grin. "Whatever. Come on, who's first?" When everyone looked at Rhonda, she stomped a tiny, rubber-booted foot. "Just because I am a rat does not mean I want the point position in the sewer!"

"I'll…I'll go," Newsie said, swallowing down a sudden rush of anxiety.

"Right behind you, cutie," Gina assured him, and Newsie gave her a grateful look. Slowly he descended the iron rungs anchored in the concrete, and reached the bottom much sooner than he'd expected; the tunnel was indeed no more than twelve feet below street level at its curved bottom, and so tight a fit overhead for Gina that she had to crouch. To their dismay, once they'd all reached the access tunnel, the light from above vanished with an ominous scraping of metal on stone. "He'd better be there when we're ready to leave," Gina muttered, pulling the hood of her coat over her head; the roof of the round tunnel was oppressively moist.

"I will hunt him down and bite him myself," Rhonda promised, then elbowed past Gina to peer into the darkness beyond the small flashlight Newsie held. "Tommy, get up here, and turn on the camera light!"

With a little maneuvering they all grouped in a tight pack, Newsie in the lead; Tommy just behind with the camera perched on a shoulder, its bright light and fuzzy mike sticking out ahead of them; Gina only a step behind him, a flashlight in one hand and a heavy stick in the other; Rhonda darting among them to sniff at the walls, squint ahead, peer fearfully behind, and somehow avoid falling underfoot while she examined everything and tried to set up a good filming. "Okay…straight ahead…Goldie, do some narration here; tell us why we're tromping through a dirty crowded tunnel just below the street; Tommy, mike and film live, please, and keep running it. We can edit later."

Nonplussed, Newsie asked, "You've forgotten why we're down here?"

"My brain is not yet Malt-o-Meal like our viewers', thank you very much!"

"Oh," Newsie gulped, tried to think past the adrenaline currently filling his veins, and stammered out an opening, though it was far less professional than the one he'd scripted last night. "Uh…We are here below the city, er, in a power-conduit used by workers for ConEd to inspect their tunnels…scratch that. We are here in a tunnel to check on the reports of monsters…no, wait. Uh…"

"You can voiceover later," Rhonda sighed. "Geez, this place is so narrow and nasty I can't imagine anyone willingly coming down here! Ya know, when you said tunnels, I assumed you meant something the average person could actually walk in?" She met Newsie's stare, and indicated Gina with a toss of her head. "How do these workers even move around down here? This is ridiculous!"

"I doubt they come down here often. Probably only when something needs to be checked or repaired," Newsie said, a little unnerved by the closeness of the walls. He'd never thought he was claustrophobic, but being in a tight spot was not the same as being in a tight spot where there might be monsters… "Er, which way do we go?"

"He said left at the…fork," Gina said, blinking in surprise at the large chalk drawing of a dinner fork on the wall of a T-intersection in front of them.

"Right," Rhonda agreed, turning to the left.

"Left," Tommy objected, slowly trying to puzzle this out.

Rhonda groaned. "Oh no. We are not doing more than one bad joke in five minutes! Move it, genius. That way!" She pushed the sloth down the left-hand tunnel.

Newsie half-turned, shining his flashlight down the right-hand tunnel. "Uh…that way looks like it widens out more…"

Rhonda checked her GPS app; they were close enough to the surface that the signal came through, if not at full bars. "Well, lovely, but the location we want is this way. We can come back and take a look down there later. Come on, give us some commentary! Are you a journalist or what?"

At the moment, he felt less like a journalist than a reluctant spelunker in a possibly dangerous cave. However, he managed to put a few words together, and spoke them aloud for the camera: "Er…we are closing in on the area where two ConEd employees claim to have seen something unusual less than two weeks ago. It seems highly unlikely to this reporter that transients would be using this particular tunnel for shelter, given the close quarters and…and…wah-choo!" Irritated, Newsie yanked out a handkerchief and tended to his cold nose. "And general dampness and moldiness of the location right below Canal Street."

Rhonda shook her head. "I think we're moving under Mott right now, or under the sidewalk maybe. We're heading south-southeast." She prodded Newsie as they crept along. "Keep talking, sunshine."

Gina gave Newsie's shoulder a squeeze, and emboldened, he picked up his pace a bit. "Uh…you can see the power lines snaking along the sides of the tunnel here, with junctions feeding up to the buildings above us. Although we're being careful not to touch anything, it seems as though it would be a serious deterrent for anyone even considering coming down here unescorted! So the question remains: if the sounds and glimpses of movement the workers have reported in this tunnel were not in fact simply homeless people looking for shelter, or urban explorers who took a wrong turn, then what exactly did the workers find?" He shivered, and tightened the russet-wool scarf around his neck, retucking the ends beneath his overcoat.

Rhonda's phone beeped, and they all stopped, startled. "This is the spot," Rhonda announced. "This is where they said they saw something…"

"And where their colleague said he last saw them before they were supposed to go up and go home for the day," Newsie added anxiously. All of them looked around. The tunnel seemed exactly the same as it had for the last block: tight, low, depressingly clammy, and with endless insulated cables heading in several directions along the walls.

"I don't see anywhere anyone could hide," Gina observed.

"Not anyone person-sized," Newsie muttered, checking up under the lines of cables and the dirt along the floor. Despite not being designed to carry water, clearly there was a leak somewhere, as patches of mud showed darker in their lights along the narrow path. "Maybe they were down here looking for the leak to begin with?"

"Water and electrical lines are definitely not a good idea," Rhonda agreed grimly. "Come on, keep going. Let's see if we can locate that mysterious blank spot."

"Do you really think it's a hidden room?" Gina asked. "It could just be a chunk of bedrock. That's all over Manhattan; they had to dynamite out all the subway lines. Maybe it's just an area no one could blast through."

"Please don't use that language," Newsie begged her. "Crazy Harry has a strange way of knowing when someone does that!"

No one popped into the tunnel, and no wild laughter was heard. "Not this time," Rhonda muttered, a little unnerved herself by the silence and close air. Slowly they proceeded along, until suddenly Gina stopped, put her nose next to the wall and sniffed. Everyone stared at her.

"Salt," she said, and beckoned for Newsie's more sensitive nose. "Isn't that salt water?"

Small grey crystals festooned a crack in one wall. Newsie cautiously smelled them, and nodded. "Sea salt! But…we're still blocks from the harbor…"

"I hear water," Rhonda said, and they all listened. A faint sloshing sound could barely be heard on the other side of the salt-spattered wall.

"Newsie…this must be an inlet," Gina suggested. "Maybe there are no tunnels in that blank area because the ocean comes up under the island there! That could be the Atlantic trying to…get through…"

As one, they all raised their eyes to the ceiling, where just below the apex of the tunnel, other small cracks dotted the concrete pipe. Many small cracks.

"'Kay. It's a wrap," Rhonda decided. "Let's go. Who wants coffee?"

"Those are pretty," Tommy murmured, filming closeups of the crystalline cracks. "Like, wow…if it's sea salt, we should take some! It's really good for your heart. Hey…maybe those guys were stealing salt? There could be a whole salt mafia down here!"

They all stared at him a moment. Rhonda shook her head. "Tommy, remind me to introduce you to Beau sometime. You'd get along great, assuming you could understand one another at all. I say mystery solved. The ConEd guys probably saw this and decided to get the heck outta Dodge before the whole tunnel caved in! Or maybe the company tried to silence them when they tried to blow the whistle!"

"That can't be it," Newsie argued. "What…what about the things that attacked my aunt? She's still completely unresponsive! I saw those things go into the sewers, Rhonda! And there are more people missing than just these two workers! There has to be a connection!"

"Newsie," Gina said, softly touching his shoulder, "Maybe…maybe Rhonda is right. That tunnel wall looks pretty bad, but there really doesn't seem to be anything else down here. Maybe the missing people all had different reasons for going missing."

Frustrated and dismayed, Newsie looked hard into her eyes; although she tried to appear sympathetic, he could read her skepticism plainly. "Don't you believe me?"

"My love," she sighed, "I believe you, and believe in you, with all my heart…but so far I'm just not seeing anything weird down here. Some definite public safety issues, yeah; but no creepy-crawlies."

"Let's check out the other end of the tunnel," Newsie argued, setting his jaw, trying not to show how upset he was. "Maybe the monsters are…are using the salt water for something, and when the workers noticed the wall here, they were ambushed on their way back up!"

Everyone looked behind them, the tunnel dark the way they'd come. "Sheesh, Goldie," Rhonda said, glaring at him. "Will you stop it with all this monster stuff? It's starting to get to me! Come on, let's get out of here. This wet air is gonna give me the plague or something!" Determinedly the rat did an about-face and tromped back along the tunnel.

The Newsman lingered at the salty wall, examining it closely for any sign of imminent collapse, but it seemed solid enough despite the cracks. I can't believe Gina doesn't agree with me! Doesn't she think my news instinct is sharp enough? Does she really think I'd allow my opinions to color my view of the facts? People ARE missing and monsters ARE using the sewers and it all MUST be linked somehow! I don't know what they'd need with salt water, but if this is the empty spot on the maps, there must be something…here… Startled, he straightened his shoulders, listening intently at the wall. Is that music? He looked up at Gina, who was watching him worriedly. "Do you hear music?"

Gina sighed, removed her hood and pushed her hair away from one ear to lean in and listen. "All I hear is sloshing. Newsie…"

"Never mind," he snapped, and turned to follow Rhonda. Tommy realized everyone was leaving, and hurried to catch up. Hurried in a relative sense, that is.

Gina put her hand on Newsie's shoulder; he repressed the angry impulse to shake it off. "Aloysius…I adore you and I believe you. If you say you heard music, you must've heard something…but it is pretty close to the surface. Maybe that was from a building above us."

"Maybe," he muttered, trudging along. "But it sounded…odd."

"Odd how?"

"Like…" He paused, but couldn't come up with a good description of that strange snippet of sound, all brass band and wild swoops and forced cheerfulness. "Like Sousa on steroids. I don't know."

Gina laughed, but Newsie wasn't amused. "Okay, so maybe someone had their satellite radio on the Marching Band Station – all Sousa, all the time! Who knows?" She sighed, seeing he wasn't happy at all. "Newsie, I'm sorry. Maybe you are right about monsters. But think logically: we haven't seen any evidence…"

"Are you saying I'm not thinking clearly?" Newsie demanded, and the two of them stopped, staring unhappily at one another.

Rhonda picked that moment to come pushing past. "Hey, I just realized what great footage that wall will make! Come on, Goldie, give me some good hard investigative sound bite to go with that! Tommy, shake a paw, back this way!"

Newsie didn't move. Rhonda, caught up in the exposé-of-public-works-neglect possibilities, didn't notice, and Tommy shuffled after her. When they'd wandered far enough away for Rhonda's voice to be distorted by the tunnel echoes, Gina knelt uncomfortably in the muck to look her Newsman in the face as an equal. "I'm saying, I don't see any monsters, Aloysius. Do you?" Gina asked quietly.

He grimaced. "I know they're down here. Gina…that smell is down here. That wet dirty fur smell."

"Are you sure that's not your cameraman?"

"I'm not joking!"

"I'm sorry," Gina said. She gave him a long, concerned stare, and he had to look away finally. "I love you. I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying you need better evidence, if you want to convince the authorities something awful really is going on down here. You need proof, not just a smell or a sound." She stroked his cheek; depressed though this whole conversation made him, he closed his eyes and savored the feel of her fingertips, just for a second. "I love you. I'll help you look. But I need you to realize how it's going to sound if you just—"

Newsie blinked back a tear of frustration, looked past her, and felt his heart stop:

The filthy, dripping, mildewy-furred thing with open fangs was an inch away from Gina, its ragged claws stretching toward her arm from behind.

He shrieked. Gina jumped, dropping her light. The monster leaped back a foot, then turned and raced away. Without thinking, Newsie tore after it, yelling angrily, "Come back here!"

It loped on six legs, moving astoundingly fast; he couldn't tell how large or long it was, since its whole body contracted and expanded as it ran like some crazed giant caterpillar. Panting, Newsie chased it past the T-intersection into a tunnel which suddenly widened and then branched out in multiple directions; he was only just close enough behind the thing to see which opening it took, and pounded after it. Splashing muck made him wince and shake the dirty droplets from his face, his glasses spattered, the smell of it rank and rotting. Son of a -! Horrible dirty creeping – A few of the more unfriendly words he'd heard Gina use when annoyed at her theatre work sprang to mind. This thing was fast and unpredictable; he'd almost caught up to it when it suddenly whipped its body around a corner he hadn't even seen until he was upon it, and he swore he glimpsed it running along the side of the tunnel like an insect before it went around a bend and out of the range of his flashlight. Newsie's right foot slid, and he skidded down painfully, knocking a knee and an elbow. Gasping, dragging himself out of the sucking puddle, he lost a rainboot. D—it! That thing would escape! It would get so far ahead at this rate he'd be…lost…

The Newsman looked around himself in growing panic. He didn't recognize this tunnel at all. There were no power lines along it that he could see, the roof seemed taller and had a greenish tint, the floor was…brick? Brick, under a layer of muck… With a start, Newsie realized he'd somehow taken a turn into a deeper tunnel. What the hey? If this isn't a power-grid tunnel, where the heck am I?

Then he heard the noises…whispering, scraping, scuttling noises…

Newsie didn't want to see what was making them. He turned and bolted, one boot gone, running as fast as he could and desperate to recall exactly what turns he'd made in this suddenly confusing warren of tunnels. The scraping sounded louder off to his left. "Gina!" he yelled, cursing himself; how could he have run so blindly down here? That thing had probably led him farther and farther into its lair! What an idiot he was! "Gina! Rhonda!" he cried, his voice hoarse, forced to stop and kick off his other boot when twice he nearly tripped and fell, unbalanced. The chill, wet tunnel floors soaked his socks immediately, but a cold was the least of his worries. That tunnel there, did I come that way? Was it a right or a left?Oh frog! I'm lost! I'm completely lost! I—

"Newsie!" a voice echoed, but he couldn't tell from which direction.

"Monsters!" he yelled as loud as he could. "There are monsters!"

"Newsie?" The echoes bewildered him; he started down one turn, stopped, backtracked, listened. His hearing, though fairly good, was unable to pinpoint the origin of his beloved's voice. Oh frog! What if they hear her? What if they go after her? What if this was all a trap to separate us? No! Gasping, he turned in the direction he thought he might have run, and increased his pace, still aware of the other noises. Impossible to tell which way those were either!

And then his flashlight blinked. He smacked the side of it, and it came back on. "No," he moaned, hurrying on, "No, no, no, no, no…"

It went out. Repeated smacks of his palm did not revive the light. The battery was dead. Why hadn't he bought a new one? Now he couldn't see, he couldn't rely on his hearing, those things could be right next to him for all he –

Smell. He could smell them. Pausing in terror, he took a deep whiff, and caught the scent of wet woolen socks too long unwashed…except he was certain socks couldn't actually creep up right…on his…side…

With a cry of desperate anguish, Newsie swung the flashlight like a club, and staggered at the hard thunk it made against something's chitinous body. Keeping tight hold of the dead light, he fled, running in complete darkness, one hand outstretched before him to try and avoid walls, the scent of horrible things bred in musty sewers trailing off behind him, fainter, thank frog fainter, and a small breeze brushed his cheek as he passed an intersection, and he caught a whiff of amber and spices, and he—

He stopped so fast he nearly cartwheeled over, one hand somehow finding the tunnel wall and scraping his felt along it to right himself. Gina! Sniffing wildly, he found the opening, climbed through it, felt the soft mud and narrow walls around him again. He was back in the ConEd tunnels. "Gina!" he called, and nearly burst into tears when he heard her yell his name back. Hurrying, stumbling, he followed his nose until he saw a bobbing flashlight up ahead, and as he came around a bend in the pipe he crashed into her. Her arms flew around him, he hugged her tight, the breath knocked momentarily from them both. "Gina…oh frog…"

"Where did you go? Why did you run off?" Gina asked, kissing him all over his face.

"M-monsters! I saw – I chased – was a trap! Monsters! We have to get out of here!" he gasped. Rhonda caught up to them, eyes wide, whiskers atwitch.

"Good grief! What the heck is going on?" the rat demanded.

"Get Tony. We have to leave. Now!" Newsie gulped, trying to get his voice back, breathless and shaking all over.

"Why? Is there a cave-in?" Rhonda looked along the intersection nervously. "Is the ocean about to come surfing all over us?"

"Monsters! I told you! They are down here! I saw them!" he insisted.

Gina looked past him, shining her powerful LED light, but saw only an empty tunnel. "You actually saw them? Where?"

"Back that way somewhere," he wheezed. "One was…right at you…I…I chased it…was stupid…could've got me…I…ah…ah…ahhhchooo!"

"We're leaving," Gina growled. "Where's your sloth? Let's go."

Relieved, Newsie clung to her, peering as hard as he could into the darkness past her light. They started back along the first access tunnel while Rhonda ran to urge Tommy to move faster toward the exit. "You…you believe me?" he asked, and then suffered a coughing fit.

"Let's just get you out of here before you collapse," Gina said, hauling him up and half-carrying him to the iron ladder. She yelled up the vertical shaft: "Hey! Open the manhole! We're coming out!"

To everyone's great relief, the worker was there, and opened the cover for them to all climb out, impatiently waiting four extra minutes for the sloth to emerge. While Tommy slowly attempted to cover the camera as a light rain drizzled down, the ConEd worker scowled at them. "Well? Find any tramps?"

"Six-legged ones!" Newsie snapped, then succumbed to a sneezing fit.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the man demanded.

"Watch the news tonight," Rhonda shot back. "Oh, and…you might want to get a raft next time you have to go down there. So long, Cap'n Crunchy." She stalked off, following Gina and a very weak-legged Newsman. "Ha! I'll bet the city will just love finding out part of the Lower East Side is on the verge of becoming beachfront property!"

"R-Rhonda, I s-saw monsters," Newsie choked out, shivering as he tried to walk. "Well, okay, I saw one…but I h-heard lots of them. I smelled lots of them!"

"Uh huh," Rhonda replied, shooting a questioning look at Gina. Gina gave a small shrug out of Newsie's line of sight, and hailed a cab.

"I did! We – we have to go back there, but with m-more Muppets…and big sticks…really big sticks…" Newsie said, still holding tightly to Gina's waist and unable to stop shivering, the cold muck coating his lower legs.

"Come on. We're going home. You can tell me everything when you have a cup of broth in you," Gina insisted, helping him into a cab. "See you, Rhonda. Bye, Tommy."

"He better be able to make it in for the edit. I wanna run this footage tonight," Rhonda grumbled, then looked up at the sloth still carefully putting a protective cloth over the already-wet lens. "Geez…give me that, and go get the van, Speedy Gonzalez! Honestly! You think we have the budget for a fourth replacement camera this year? Come on!" She sighed, threw her designer coat over the camera, and stood in mounting irritation while the sloth ambled off to remember where he'd parked. The rain was just enough of a shower to ruin her perm completely. "Monsters. I think somebody needs some meds, and to stay away from underground places…"

In the cab, the Newsman tried to relax, hugging Gina; she held him close, taking his glasses off to clean them. "You really had me worried! Why did you run like that?"

"I told you, I saw a monster! It was…it was trying to grab you," Newsie gulped.

Gina hesitated, then said gently, "Newsie…no one else saw it. Are you absolutely sure? What did it look like?"

"Of course I'm sure!" he yelled. Gina winced. Hurt, he exclaimed, "You don't believe me! You think I – I hallucinated it all! You think I panicked!"

"Newsie –"

"I don't believe this! Gina! I am a rational Muppet, not some…some chicken who'd go running off at the word 'fox'!" He glared at her, shaken and feeling betrayed.

Gina took a deep breath. "Aloysius, it's not that I don't believe you, it's just that…that…" She paused, and stared at a large dark purplish glop on Newsie's glasses.

"You don't believe me! Gina, I know what I saw – I know what I smelled! There was a weird caterpillar thing, and it ran along the walls, and it…it…" He peered hard at her, realizing she wasn't even looking at him. "Gina?"

Wordlessly, she held out the glasses to him. The Newsman took them, confused, bringing them close to his squinting eyes to see what had silenced her. With trembling fingers, he plucked off the piece of coarse fur stuck with mud to one lens, and held it up. The fur reminded them both of wooly caterpillars.

Newsie stared at Gina. Gina swallowed. "Okay," she said softly.

Newsie leaned in for a hug. She held him tight in silence the rest of the way home.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN. _In which a squid has a grudge against octopodes; Newsie has a bad cold; and Clifford has his hands full._

"Hey! Welcome to Swift Wits, the fastest game show on TV! I'm your host, Snookie Blyer! Our contestant this time is Melba Terst, from the Upper East Side! So Melba, I understand you collect rare butterflies!"

Snookie paused only a couple of seconds, more than ready to move on and get this farce over with. The hesitant Mrs Terst looked around at the neon black-and-blue set with distaste, but finally replied, "That is correct. You see, my darling late Herbert used to capture –"

"That's lovely!" Snookie interrupted, and indicated the happy and sad faces on his metal podium. "If you answer correctly, you will go home with this exquisitely rare jeweled Mediterranean swallowtail!" One of the two panels behind Mrs Terst slid open to reveal a tiny, breathtakingly multicolored butterfly; it slowly opened and closed its splendid wings, resting on an orchid branch in a small screened terrarium. As Mrs Terst leaned closer, using a pair of opera glasses to view the wings, Snookie continued, "But in the event you should answer incorrectly, the last of this particular species will be eaten by Carl, the Big Mean Bunny!"

The second panel shot open, and Carl, grinning around his fat pink nose, waved cheerfully. "Hi!"

"But – but this is an endangered species!" Mrs Terst said, shocked by Carl's aggressively happy stare. Or perhaps it was the large drop of drool he casually wiped with the back of one furry hand which discomfited her.

"Those taste the best!" Carl assured her.

"Okay! Let's give our home audience the answer," Snookie said, and started in surprise when the announcer's voice said distinctly in the studio: "The answer is…salamander."

"Hey, wait a minute! That's not supposed to—what the frog am I saying? Let's go! You have ten seconds!" Snookie cried, a desperate joy rising in his chest at the producers' mistake. They'd said the answer aloud! This was an educated woman, not like those morons they usually—

"You cannot possibly destroy the last butterfly of its kind! It's ghastly to even joke about it!" Mrs Terst scolded Carl.

"Uh, dear, all you have to do is say the answer, they just gave it to you!" Snookie pointed out, but the enraged matron shook a thin finger at an unmoved Carl instead.

"I shall report you to the Sierra Club, you awful beast!"

"Just say the word! Say 'salamander!' Please! Just say it!" Snookie begged, but the old lady snatched the terrarium from its niche.

"Well I won't allow it! I won't!" she cried, protectively curling one arm around the baffled butterfly in its tiny cage. The buzzer sounded.

Snookie dragged his fingers roughly through his hair. "Why? Why am I being tormented like this? If this is about me pulling Mindy Argyle's braids in third grade, I'm sorry, okay?" he shouted at the ceiling. Carl reached out to grab the butterfly, but when a yelling, slapping Mrs Terst refused to let go of the cage, Carl shrugged, picked her up by her skinny, varicose-veined ankles, and stuffed her into his black maw headfirst. Snookie pounded his podium, anguished. It wasn't as though this was a new experience, but of late he'd been feeling a great deal more pressure. Too many shows in a day, every day; too many memos from below which he had to obey or suffer even worse humiliations; too little food and fresh air and too many dratted monsters! Too much, in short; simply too much. Snookie didn't watch Carl snarfling down the rest of Mrs Terst, even as she yelled expletives no society matron should know in regards to Carl's ancestors. Weary, Snookie shoved away from his podium and walked out of the studio, ignoring the escort of a fat puce beast with large feathery ears and numerous yellow teeth.

When does it end? Where does it stop? How do I get out of here? Am I doomed to grow old down here, until I'm so gray they use ME as the bait for 'Monster Hunters: Urban Edition'? Despairing, Snookie trudged along the corridor, head down. He was positive that no one from the outside world remembered him anymore; if anyone ever saw one of these horrid wastes of videotape, they likely only laughed at him. Snookie Blyer was no longer a byword in the entertainment business, a staple of popular daytime television…no, if anything, now he could only claim to be a staple of a certain monstrous bunny's diet. How did I wind up here? Why didn't I read the small print, and refuse the host position? If it hadn't been for that imprisonment clause in that blasted contract, I would have been up there still, free, having an assistant open all my fan mail from gorgeous young co-eds, making special appearances at awards, heck, the Emmys, the Oscars, even the Dorothy Parker Awards for Superfluous Sarcasm! But nooo, you just had to sign up for more game shows! Now Drew Carey has 'Let's Make a Deal' and you have 'Let's Bake a Snail'! His fury with himself passed quickly; he was the only real friend he had down here.

He used to have friends. Heck, in the frat house, his brothers hadn't even noticed how much shorter he was; he'd been the wiseacre of the group, always ready to plan a surprise party or emcee a talent show (well knowing a good emcee would go home with ten times the sweeties any individual contestant might garner during the night). No one had commented on his being a Muppet, which he'd always been a little ashamed of: Muppets, if they achieved fame at all, were known for singing and dancing and other frivolous pursuits. Muppets were not highly regarded as millionaires, or sharp dealers, or candidates for the Senate…dreams Snookie had carried since he was a tiny bit of felt back on the Muppabean farm. And his family was no better: their highest aspirations all revolved around a good season's crop, or winning the most votes at the church bake sale for a Seven-up pudding cake. No imagination, no ambition! And yet look where all his driving thirst for public acclaim had landed him…an unwilling participant in some of the worst programming the world had seen since QVC and 'America's Lamest Five Seconds of Fame Video Smorgasbored!' Disgusted though it made him, Snookie had to admit he would probably have been better off running for county coroner back in Wisconsin…maybe then, at least, he might have had his own forensics reality show…

"Where are we going?" he asked the monster pacing him.

"Blugh," it muttered, checking a clipboard with Snookie's day itinerary. "Blugh blugh blugh."

"For crying out loud, can't they even give me a guard who speaks Frackle? That'd be comprehensible at least!" Snookie complained, but the monster only stared implacably at him. Snookie sighed. "Great. Yeah. Fish. Whatever."

He trudged without any enthusiasm into the enormous studio. The black, deep tank was half-full of spectators swimming around and gabbing, waiting for the taping to start. Snookie pulled on a lifejacket and climbed the rickety stairs up to the equally rickety dock, stepped carefully into an inflatable kayak, signaled to the director he was ready, and paddled to the center of the tank. Excitedly the alligators, sharks, grizzlies, and assorted pescavores settled in the half-submerged bleachers provided for them, and the opening music cued up. Snookie stared toward the tiny green light of the main camera, automatically smiling for the presumed viewers at home (he presumed someone, somewhere, would be unable to change the channel to something worth watching, anyway), and listened to the watery brass band mangling a cheerful Sousa march into a dread-inspiring garble of tuba-based noise.

"Are you craving a crustacean? Are you cuckoo for conch bites? Then this is the show for you!" he shouted, smiling maniacally. "Welcome to – You Win a Fish!" The studio audience cheered, slapped fins against their seats, and churned that end of the tank into a roiling maelstrom of water. "Today's contestants, ready and willing to devour each other if need be to win, are Rupert the Other Psychic Octopus…" Snookie read off his cue card, not letting his smile falter although he wanted to sneer at the egotism of the participants, "and Jürgens Jorgmann, the Ginormous Squid!" He paused, glancing over at the squid, and bit back a comment about 'ginormous' not being an actual word. That thing looked big enough to bite him in two without batting either of its fiesta-platter-sized eyes. "O-kay! Cephalopods, are you ready?" Both waved tentacles eagerly. "Then let's play!"

The crowd hushed expectantly and the lights swung down, bathing the octopus and squid in unearthly green neon and himself in stark, bright yellow. He supposed he should be pleased they'd chosen a color that flattered his felt, but it was impossible to get enthused over anything today. "Your first question, for a tin of sardines, is…" Suddenly Snookie felt like rebelling. Ignoring his cards, he asked the first thing which popped into his head: "What sport did the actually accurate psychic octopus predict winning teams in?"

Both contestants paused, taken aback. Just before the time buzzer sounded, the octopus rattled his cuttlefish. He gurbled, and the raspy voice of the translator muttered in Snookie's earpiece: "Wimbledon? Tennis?"

"Oh no I'm sorry! The answer is soccer – the World Cup!" Snookie beamed, perversely pleased at the disgruntled tentacle-wiggling the octopus did. He only knew the answer himself because for weeks the monsters had been running around startling one another with those African horns. "That's one strike for Rupert! Next question, for the prize of a package of frozen fishsticks: what gamefish was featured in the 1980s horror-comedy House?"

The squid blinked. The octopus writhed restlessly. Snookie waited, grinning, until the timer blared, then chuckled. "Well, looks like you two need to bone up on your cult classics – or at least get some bones! The answer is 'a marlin,' though I also would have accepted 'sailfish'! Now, for the bounty of one fifty-pound albacore, your next question: what actor stubbornly refused to be eaten in the legendary film Jaws?"

In the control booth, Snookie could see the writers frantically tugging at the director's fins. He knew he'd pay a price for being this far off the reservation, but at this point he found it hard to care; they'd figure out a way to eat him regardless. It seemed lately like his life was all about other creatures' digestive tracts, and he was sick of it. Might as well earn it, he thought with a particular grim joy. The squid buzzed in.

"That's right – Roy Schieder! You win that fish!" Snookie felt first relief, then annoyance, when the gilled director seemed to decide it had been a fair question because the squid knew the answer, and shrugged off the protesting crawfish scripters. Ignoring the part of his brain which was yelping in terror at his boldness, Snookie thought up another gem for the contestants. "Now the stakes get a little higher! The prize this time is an entire school of krill! For the krill, you two bottom feeders: what kind of creature is depicted in the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride at Disneyworld attacking the submarine Nautilus?"

Both deepwater denizens buzzed in, but Jürgens was slightly quicker. He blurbled sharply, and the translator hissed, "A squid!"

"No that's incorrect! Rupert?"

The octopus blurted out, predictably, "octopus." Snookie grinned. "Still wrong! Boy, you two really have been stuck under a rock all your lives, huh? The correct answer is a kraken! We're going to go to a commercial now, but when we return, more of this epic battle of the beak-brained! The score so far has the squid up by a tuna, and strikes for both sides –"

"A kraken is an octopus!" Rupert snarled through the translator, but Jürgens snapped back even before the translator could catch up, apparently fluent in octopus as well:

"Idiot! A kraken is a squid! You tiny-tentacled creeps never get anything right!"

"Guys, guys," Snookie said, holding up both hands although he was enjoying the increasingly discontented contestants too much to actually sound placating, "Hey, we're all just here for the halibut, right? Let's calm down and—"

"You think a squid could actually come to the surface and take down a ship? Pah! You cowards can't even show your armtips above five thousand feet!" Rupert scoffed, coiling several of his arms around him and lifting his bulbous head higher out of the water as if to illustrate how at-the-surface his own species could be.

"Octopi can't contemplate anything deeper than their own beak-lint! Shallow, shallow, shallow! Why'dya think they named that human the octo-mom instead of squid-mom? You'd never catch one of us parading our offspring for tabloids instead of eating them!" Jorgmann returned haughtily; at least, the frothing water around those flailing tentacles looked haughty to Snookie.

"Hey, now, let's just play the game," Snookie said, seeing the director signaling at him and the camera turning from red standby to greenlight. "Hey! We're back! It's a heated contest so far between our two players! Let's find out a little more about—"

But his usual light intro of the contestants sank immediately. Squid and octopus seemed more intent on insulting one another than focusing on anything else right now. "Oh yeah? Well you never hear National Geo talking about how smart a longbodied loser who gets snagged on a simple baitline is – giant sucker!"

"Sucker! Who you calling a sucker, you—you—you squishy-headed, clamsucking, camouflaged coward of the reef!" Outraged, the squid slapped the water with two flat-ended tentacles, nearly upsetting Snookie's kayak. He grabbed the sides, ducking, wondering if baiting these two antagonists had really been his smartest career move.

"Guys? Let's get back to the game," he suggested brightly, but the octopus glared, shaking his spongy head in barely restrained rage.

"Clamsucking! At least I don't have to scavenge through deepwater 'snow'! You know what that stuff is? Guess that makes you a connoisseur of other fishes' sh—"

"And that's all the time we have today!" Snookie announced, paddling hurriedly out of the way as the two enormous cephalopods lunged at one another, whipping the tank into a clash of waves and slapping tentacles. "Tune in next time, assuming we have a tank left, for another exciting episode of You Win a Fish!"

He managed to reach the dock without capsizing, but the little boat was rocking so badly when he lashed it to the waterlogged pylons and flung himself onto relatively safe ground that Snookie cut his hand on the sharp encrustations of salt crystals covering the dock. He swore, then sucked on his cut finger, reflecting that this was probably more mineral content than he ever received in the bland mush they fed him. Leaving the chaos for the lagoony director to sort out, he hurried down the stairs outside of the tank and headed for the door, both pleased at having not been eaten by one of the deep-sea monsters and irritated that his day was far from over. "You know, this is all making me very hungry," he told the monster trailing him. "What say we ditch this dump and go grab a T-bone together?"

He grinned broadly, but the monster merely stared at him, uncomprehending. It tapped the schedule. "Blugh," it reminded him.

Snookie blew out a disgusted breath. "Humorless idiot! That's called sarcasm, for your future reference. Not that you have much of a future down here…" He increased his pace angrily, striding down a side corridor toward the next show's set, and suddenly heard a terrified scream from somewhere on the other side of the corridor wall, some harsh voice yelling a girl's name: Jenny or Ginny or something. Snookie shook his head. "Poor bastich. You know, is it really too much to ask for better soundproofing down here? You think I feel more motivated by hearing other people being tortured and eaten? Huh? You get that from Trump's book? Should I be eager to put my nose to the grindstone and my professional butt on the line after listening to everyone else being chomped, stomped, eaten and beaten? Does that make me want to work here?" He glared at the puzzled monster, then spat at it furiously, "No! It does not!"

"Uh…blugh?" the monster asked, hesitantly indicating the direction it wanted Snookie to go. Snookie glared at it, breathing hard, realizing he was working himself up to no purpose. This cretin wouldn't know a motivational tool if it was hit over the head with one…a likely enough technique down here.

Snookie sighed deeply, wrested his despair under control, and shrugged. "As if you even understand a word I'm saying. It's like talking to a picture of a wall. Come on, Blugh." He resumed his march of gloom, wincing at the screams and shouts he could still hear on the other side of the dripping, slimy wall. "Come on, seriously! Would it kill you guys to put up some foam insulation at least?"

"Blugh," the monster said. It skulked along after the depressed host another minute in silence, then offered its opinion shyly: "Actually, I like ribeyes better."

Snookie stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. The monster blinked at him. "Blugh," it repeated, prodding him into motion with one wide-splayed furry hand.

Snookie started chuckling, then giggling, then laughing…then trying hard not to cry. Feeling weak, he trudged onward, listening vaguely to the sounds of pounding footsteps somewhere. At least, he thought morosely, that poor soul actually thinks he can run away. Snookie himself had given that up years ago. His own flat feet plodded over the rough ground, barely noticing the damp and the smelly goop coating the corridor, moving him toward frog only knew what fresh torment now.

***

The sniffles and shivers had blossomed into a full-flowered head cold, and now not only could the Newsman not enjoy the spicy-sweet amber scent of his beloved, he was having trouble smelling anything at all. He'd cleaned his glasses so often after repeated sneezing fits that he'd simply removed them, and now huddled miserably in bed, squinting out the window at the gray, sulky clouds which refused to really rain and refused to go away, hovering over the city, echoing his current mood. When his symptoms worsened around noon, Gina had fixed him a lemony-orange tisane full of Echinacea to chase down the garlicky chicken broth and banished him to the bedroom for the afternoon. I can't just sit here. There are monsters taking over the undercity! Restlessly he threw off the plush blanket draped over his shoulders, but a minute later was compelled to pull it back on, shivering.

Gina came in, curling up gently on the bed next to him, and stroked his hair off his furrowed brow. "I know you hate this. I'm sorry," she said, and kissed his forehead.

Newsie sighed. "Cad I ad lead jud…go down amb get de dory on de air?" His nose was so clogged he sounded ridiculous, even to himself.

"Go out in that? Not a good idea," Gina objected, looking out at the gray, wet day. Even the filtered sunlight, such as it was, looked depressed.

"Dib ib impordat!"

"I know. But Newsie…so are you, and it isn't worth risking your health. You already sound hoarse and…um…stuffed. Why encourage a cold to turn into strep or pneumonia? Give it a day or two and rest," Gina said softly, continuing to run sympathetic fingers through his hair. Any other time, he would have found that immensely…pleasing, but right now his only concern was the story. "I've already called your station and the theatre for you. You're officially on sick leave as of right now. If you feel able tomorrow, by all means jump back in! Just…wait until you can do it without risking something nastier…or sounding like a congested walrus." She smiled at him; he scowled and snorted, then lost control to a fierce set of sneezes, burying his nose in a handful of tissue.

"Dib ib ridiculub," he muttered.

"Drink your tea. It'll help. There's horehound and chamomile and honey in it."

"At leab leb me call Rhonda," Newsie insisted, giving Gina his most unhappy, pleading, Muppy-eyed look; it had worked before when he'd wanted to work overtime on that three-week investigative piece about recycling pigeon droppings into low-emissions heating fuel…

Gina shook her head. "I already talked to her. She said she's going to need a day to sort through the film anyway; apparently your camera got wet and she's having to edit all of it through some fancy image-restoring program just to make it watchable." Newsie groaned, shoulders slumping. Two grand for what? A soaked camera and unusable film? Darn that sloth! At least Gina wasn't bringing up the subject of wasted money; they weren't hurting, but ravaging their savings wasn't going to help the matter if nothing was accomplished through all these payouts for information and help. She put an arm around his shoulders. "Just rest. Hopefully tomorrow you'll be able to get to the station and file your report."

"I neeb do geb de fur do Doddor Unnydew," Newsie said, looking at the tiny jar Gina had cleaned out to put the weird fur sample in, sitting ominously now on the nightstand.

"Tomorrow," Gina said firmly. Seeing her frustrated journalist lost in a frown, she sighed, and kissed the bridge of his nose. "Drink your tea. Good vitamin C there. Get some rest."

He tried not to sound hopeful, looking cautiously up at her as she rose. "Whenf your broducdun meebing?"

"Well, it was going to be this evening, but I was able to get them to move it up to four o'clock," she replied, pulling her hair back as it tried to slide out of her loose ponytail. "Think you can look after yourself for a couple of hours?"

"Zhur," Newsie agreed immediately. Better than he'd hoped! With Gina out of the apartment for her production meeting, he might have just enough time to run down to the station, help Rhonda edit the report, and at least prepare it for airing tonight, even if he couldn't stay for the broadcast! At least the vital information would get out to the public, and he could try to rest a little after…that… He blinked. "Why arb you looging ab me dat way?"

Her grey eyes narrowed. "You weren't thinking of going out, were you?"

"Erb…doh," he lied, but couldn't keep a flush from suffusing his already-heated cheeks. Gina leaned over and tugged the sash of his robe; he tried to stop her, weakly fumbling at her diligent fingers, but she opened his robe, revealing the clean sports coat and tie he'd snuck on under it. She shook her head, crossing her arms. Embarrassed, Newsie stared up at her.

She could only be angry with him for a moment, fortunately. She sighed again. "Newsie…look. I know you don't want or need another mother, but you don't take your own safety into account often enough." Serious understatement, Gina thought, images of falling books, stampeding cows, and rolling boulders flashing through her mind. "You…you get so focused on the news, on the next big scoop, that you don't give enough regard to your own health! For once, stay put, get well, and then you can give this story the attention and strength I know you'll need for it. Okay?"

"People neeb do know whaff goimb om!" Newsie argued, gesturing at the monster-goop-in-a-jar.

"And have you figured out what that is just since this morning?"

"Uh…"

"Get that weird stuff analyzed. Get your report about the seawater in the tunnel on the air, and let the people we pay taxes to around here get off their butts and go check it out," Gina said. "But don't go crying monster until you have proof you can actually present without looking like a lunatic, and don't do anything until you're over this cold!" She shook her head. "You have the most sensitive sinuses of anyone I've ever met…"

"Dab mot my vault," Newsie grumped, hating how accurate her points were. He really, really wanted to get the word out about those creeps underground! But…he still had no idea what they were doing down there. And he knew Rhonda would fight him tooth and claw over a monster warning unless he could prove the glob of fur was from an actual indeterminate caterpillaroid thing previously unknown to science…not to mention all the objections he could easily imagine Blanke bringing up. He started to rewrap his robe, but Gina put a gentle hand on his. When he looked back up at her, she smiled softly, and started untying his tie. "Whab are you doimb?"

"You're not going to rest comfortably in that. Here. Put on some PJs." She pulled a pair of long, blue-stripey pajamas from his dresser and tossed them on the bed. "Come on. Off with the suit. On with the cute jammies."

"Oh," he sighed. For a moment, he'd wondered if perhaps she knew of some remarkably intimate remedy for the common cold. He would've liked to explore that particular health story. Gina grinned at his obvious disappointment, and headed for the bedroom door.

"Get comfy, my very manly Muppet. Maybe if you're feeling better tonight we can see about raising your body temperature that way." She paused at the door, watching him reluctantly stripping off his work clothes. "I'm going to close the door so the noise won't bother you, but I'll come running if you yell for me, okay?"

He shot her a confused look. "Noib? What noib?"

"The production meeting. Everyone's coming over here; we'll be in the living room. I think Charlotte's bringing Indian food." She laughed at his startled expression. "Oh, did you think I'd leave the apartment with you all cabin-fever grumbly? Not a chance in heck, reporter boy! I asked them to pick up a curry for you. Good for your nose."

Newsie sighed, then gave up, shrugging into his pajama shirt. Before Gina closed the door, he said quietly, "I lub you."

Softly she replied, smiling, "I lub you too, Aloysius. Rest well."

He wrapped his bathrobe over his pajama-clad felt, shivering again, and drew the blanket up over the top of his head, sitting crosslegged where he could look out the window at the cold, drizzly day. She knows me too well, he thought wryly, regarding the still-steaming mug of herbal tea on his nightstand next to the fur sample. He sighed, and reached for the tea.

***

Clifford stroked his mustache, concentrating on the list of acts which he'd been forced to rearrange. "Okay…so…if there's a News Flash, Fozzie can take it. Since the chickens won't do the musical number, we'll just have to—"

"Piggy told them they had to be moral support for Camilla," Dr Strangepork offered. "It has something to do with that new show of Gonzo's."

Clifford nodded tiredly. It wasn't even time for the house to open, much less the curtain, and he already felt harried. "Right, fine. So…for the opening act, why don't we put 'Pigs in Space' first?" He looked at Strangepork and Link, who both nodded. Happy to have at least settled one part of the show, Clifford made a note on the legal pad Scooter had left for him. "Great. That should start the show with a…" Out of the corner of his shades he noticed Crazy Harry listening in, and corrected himself quickly: "Uh…that should get things off to a strong start. Now after that, what say we put on—"

"Miss Piggy should be thrilled to hear not only is she in the opening number with me, but we have that wonderful song from West Side Story later," Link rumbled, pleased.

"Uh…yeah. About that. Link, Piggy told me earlier there was not, and I quote, 'a chance of her setting foot in a kosher deli' that she'd ever do another duet with you after the way you upstaged her in that opera thing years ago," Clifford sighed.

"She upstaged me!" Link huffed.

"Well, look, man, it ain't happening. So unless you know of someone else willing to sing 'I Feel Pretty' with you—"

"I will! I will!" Everyone turned at the high-pitched trill of a voice, and Wanda blushed, drawing her shawl a little tighter over her bosom. "I mean…I'd be happy to help out, if you need a singer."

Clifford looked her over, and shrugged. "If you want to. It's not gonna be like singing with Wayne, though…"

Wanda gave Link an appraising look; the hog was busy grooming his forelock in a mirror. "Same difference far as I can see," she muttered dryly.

"Great." Clifford checked off another item on his list. "Okay, so, Fozzie, you want to come on after the pigs, or later after the lobster juggling act?"

"Somebody's juggling lobsters?" Rizzo wondered. "Does da shrimp know about dis?"

"That's King Prawn okay?" Pepe huffed, appearing abruptly on the stage manager's desk. "And no one is juggling the lobsters! They are the jugglers already! The leader is my cousin." He glared around at the odd stares Muppets gave him. "What? What? Jou never heard of juggling reef lobsters?"

"Sounds more like reef madness," Rizzo snickered.

"Uh, if things fall on me during the news, do I get worker's comp?" Fozzie asked.

"So…ever worked with a handsome pig before?" Link murmured at Wanda.

"Many times," she grumbled, and tromped off to the ladies' dressing-room.

"Fozz…nothing will fall on you. Only Newsguy gets that treatment. So when do you wanna do your standup bit?"

"Uhmmm…I think after the lobsters…"

"What about my solo, okay?" Pepe demanded.

Clifford consulted his list. "Pepe, I don't see anything about you having a solo tonight!"

"No, no, jou see, Kermins promised me before he left, okay; he said to me, 'Pepe, whiles I am gone, jou make sures jou are on that stage every night because jou are the moneymaker around here okay!'"

"Buddy, you ain't even da most expensive item on da menu," Rizzo cackled, causing the shrimp to bristle all over and jump down in front of the rat, where they resumed their argument from the weekend over who had the prettier face, greater talent, and better Halloween costume. Over the hubbub, Clifford tried to nail down the night's schedule again.

"If we run short, I'll throw you in, all right, little dude? Now, the pigs are first; then comes Rowlf's slam poem…"

"Got it right here," Rowlf said amiably, holding up a sheet of paper.

"Groovy. After that we'll have the—"

"Short? Little? Jou got something jou wanna say to me, catfish-face?" Pepe yelled.

"No, man! I just meant—"

"Oh, wait, that's my Groupon for Mighty Jack," Rowlf said, scratching his head. "Where'd I put that poem?"

"Wait! No! After da pigs!" Fozzie spoke up.

"When do we go on?" asked a stately goat in lederhosen, a basket under one arm making disturbing noises.

Clifford stared at him. "Uh…who are you again?"

"I'm the Scandinavian sheep charmer." The goat opened the lid of the basket long enough for everyone to glimpse an oddly long wooly thing. "Brought my own flugelhorn too!"

"Uh…yeah." Shaking his head, Clifford searched his list. "Got it."

"I can't find my poem. How about a song?"

"I'm really not comfortable with dis news thing…"

"Jou gots a problem with me, jambalaya breath? Come on! Get down here and say it to my face!"

"Guys, come on now…"

"Hey, my Nawlins brothah, the band and I have some disturbifyin' thoughts concernin' the appropriability of this song about greenbacks, seein' as how lil' Robin is under the impression it's froggist," Dr Teeth spoke up, trying to get Clifford's attention over the clamor.

"Do you think she's smitten yet, or should I really turn on the charm?" Link wanted to know.

"Guys!" Clifford tried, but everyone was speaking, shouting, protesting or preening all at once.

An authoritative bellow silenced them all: "Quieeeet!"

Everyone fell silent, except for one alto voice complaining in a back corner: "So she was all like, 'I rully hate it when they require nudity,' and I was like, 'I didn't know they needed that for a hand model!'"

"All of you be quiet!" Piggy ordered, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. "Our capitan put Clifford in charge, so all of you listen up!" She took the night's list from the somewhat discomfited host and glanced at it once. "Right. You're gonna tell them to do 'Pigs in Space' first, Rowlf's gonna do 'Waltzing Mathilda' with Gladys, the sheep charmer's next, then the hog and Wanda, then the jugglers, then Fozzie, then my solo, then the Mayhem, then the Chef, then Sam can blab until the audience is sick of it or for thirty seconds, whichever comes first, then the closing number with everybody. News whenever it comes up, the shrimp gets onstage over my dead body, and everybody goes home happy, right?" She glared around, her look silencing all objection, and handed the sheet back to Clifford airily. "Tell them all that, and let's get the show moving! All of you foamheads, listen to him!" Snout in the air, she trotted off to fetch a bite from the canteen.

Everyone looked at Clifford.

"Uh…right," he said, trying to regain some measure of respect. "All good ideas. Thanks, Piggy. All right, everybody clear on that?" He deepened his voice, looking around at everyone. The gathered Muppets all nodded. A light onstage suddenly winked out. Clifford growled, "And can one of you stagepigs please fix that danged thing? All right! Let's all pull together here, and give Kermit a great first-night-without-him report!"

Always ready to provide moral support, Fozzie swept one fist through the air in a go-get-'em gesture. "Dat's right! We can do this, right guys?" A low murmur rippled through the Muppets. "Hey! I said, we can do this, right?" The murmur increased this time, and a few "yeah"s and "Sure"s could be heard. Excited, Fozzie clapped his paws. "Dat's the spirit! Now let's get out there and have a blast!"

"Fozzie…" Clifford groaned.

Fozzie paled under his fur. "Oh, no…"

When the smoke cleared, half the lighting board sparked crazily, connections shorted out. The other half of it was gone.

Clifford put one hand to his throbbing head. "Aw, man…someone put out that danged short…"

Fozzie coughed, his ears ringing. "What?" he shouted, unable to even hear himself.

Someone else had heard, however. "Agains with the short jokes! Jou and me, we are about to have it out, jou got that already Mister Fat Wednesday?"

"Give it up, Pepe," Clifford sighed, shaking his head as a cable sparked and flopped like a dying snake on the backstage floor. "And that's Tuesday."

"Whatever, okay." The haughty prawn scuttled away, leaving Clifford to stare glumly at the mess, with a half an hour to showtime.

Fozzie complained loudly, "Why da heck did Newsie have to call in sick tonight? I haven't even had a News Flash yet and already my fur is smoking! Boy, he really is a jinx!"

Crazy Harry just cackled, satisfied, and crept off to restock his grenades.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN. _In which a gofer downplays chaos; a Whatever engages a monster as his partner in crime; and the lab boys ask a crazed veterinarian for assistance._

Kermit passed a weary flipper over blurred eyes and took another sip of his strong coffee, waiting in the hotel lobby while Scooter finished up at the front desk. The early-morning light through the lobby's broad picture windows gleamed on the brass fixtures inside and the coppery bushes outside. Autumn could be nice, he reflected; the swamp had experienced no such fanfares of color before cooler weather settled in. He regretted they hadn't been able to begin this location scouting earlier in the year; it would have been nice to film fall leaves on the trees, wherever they wound up choosing to shoot. However, a barren forest had its appeal for a scary movie, and so far, the places they'd looked at on this trip all held some possibility for scenic shots.

"All set?" Scooter asked, popping up at Kermit's elbow rather too early for the tired frog's comfort.

"I guess," Kermit sighed. "What day is it…Wednesday?"

"Yep."

"So this must be…Vermont?"

"New Hampshire. They used to be the same state, if it helps any…"

"Great," Kermit grumbled, turning to the door.

"It's a little chilly, boss," Scooter cautioned. "Why don't you let me go warm up the car first?"

The amphibian appreciated his assistant's concern, but shook his head. "I'd just as soon get moving. I'll warm up enough that way." Tired though he was, Kermit noted something a little off about Scooter's manner today. "Everything okay at home?" he asked.

Scooter shrugged, dragging their luggage along as they headed into the chilly morn and the gravel parking lot. "Oh, um, sure. Sara's fine. She's keeping busy. She's looking forward to the party on Saturday at Fozzie's."

"It'll be nice to see Mrs Bear again," Kermit agreed, but sensed Scooter holding out on him. "Anything else?"

"Uhm…did you talk to Piggy last night?"

"Of course," Kermit replied, curious and now a little worried. "She seemed great. She told me all about her shoe-shopping trip." He shook his head again, ruefully. "It seems attending a Halloween party involves more than a perfect costume; the perfect shoes are a major design decision."

Scooter chuckled dutifully, and now Kermit knew there was something else. He frowned at Scooter while his assistant busied himself packing their small suitcases in the trunk of the rental car, opening the doors, starting the engine and the heater and buckling in. "Is there something else I ought to know?" the frog demanded; Scooter turned, saw his boss wasn't buckling in, and realized the car wasn't going to move until he gave him all the news.

"Um, well…Clifford texted me this morning…"

"And?"

"Oh, there's no problem, chief! It's all taken care of!"

Kermit's face crumpled unhappily. "What's all taken care of?"

"Well, insurance will probably cover the smoke damage —"

"Smoke damage?"

"—and Clifford said the audience seemed to enjoy seeing the show by footlights –"

"Footlights? As in candles?"

"—and Gina and Scott volunteered to come by today and do the tie-in for the new breakers, and hook up the new light board –"

"What happened to the old one?!"

"—and Crazy Harry's been 'indefinitely detained' again by Homeland Security, which is probably just as well; and Fozzie's having his fur cleaned –"

"Scooter!" Kermit shouted, making the other Muppet flinch in the close confines of the compact car. "What the hey happened?"

"Oh, uh, nothing big, chief. The light board…um…exploded."

Kermit struggled a moment with the various things trying to force their way out of his mouth, counted to twenty silently, and blew out a long breath. "Eeeesshh. You know…maybe I don't want to know the details after all."

Scooter nodded sagely. "Probably not. And like I said, it's all being taken care of."

"There'd better be a theatre to come back to Friday," Kermit grumbled.

Scooter laughed, putting the car in gear. "Buckle up, boss. Long day ahead. We have…" he consulted a list on his phone. "Four properties to look at. Hey, what did you think of that one yesterday?"

Kermit did as he was urged and settled into the plush seat, resigned. "Uh…was that the one with the chicken coop out back, or the one with the huge barn?"

"No, the chicken coop was the one with the huge barn, and that was Monday night. I mean the one with the pond out front, and the broken-down rail fence! Wasn't that just about perfect?"

Kermit winced; he did recall that farm now. "Scooter, the owner tried to run us off with a shotgun! Your real estate agent gave us the wrong address!"

"Yeah, sure…but wasn't it great?"

The frog slumped in his seat, and tried to focus on his coffee. Not one single cabin-in-the-woods so far had possessed exactly the right combination of rural scenery, partial dilapidation, and owners willing to negotiate for a film crew to camp there a few weeks, and at this rate, they'd have to wait until the spring to start all over again… With a heavy sigh, he stared out the windshield at the gorgeous New England autumn, and did his best to tune out Scooter's aggressively optimistic chatter.

It was way too early in the morning.

"Me mee meep meep," Beaker offered tentatively, eyes darting in all directions as Bunsen trotted cheerily ahead of him along the conservatively-decorated hallway.

Honeydew chuckled, waving a hand airily in dismissal. "Now, Beakie! You know perfectly well that as long as the portable psychokinetic modulating device is operating smoothly, there should be no more trouble with objects animating monstrously! And the Newsman said it was about a new monster species! Aren't you excited?"

"Meep," Beaker said flatly. Excited wasn't the term he would've used.

Bunsen checked the number of the apartment door with the wreath of fall leaves and miniature pumpkins decorating it, then knocked. After a pause, the door opened. The scientists blinked uncertainly at the impatient rat glaring up at them. "Er…hello! I am Dr Bunsen Honeydew, and this is my –"

"Yeah, yeah," the rat said. She stepped aside for them to enter. "He's in the bedroom trying to unclog his honker."

"Meep," Beaker murmured at Rhonda; she gave him a short nod in reply. Bunsen walked down the interior hall, glancing curiously at the Art Deco prints on the walls and the autumn-leaf throw rug underfoot. Beaker put a tremulous hand to his mouth when he saw the garlands of silk leaves, plastic spiders, and tiny orange lights strung in the arched doorway to the more private rooms of the apartment, then hurried to catch up with his colleague. Rhonda scurried past them and jumped onto the foot of the generous platform bed where the Newsman huddled, scowling and blowing his nose for the fifteenth time this hour; two full boxes of Kleenex sat on his nightstand, and an empty one sat on the floor next to the wastebasket full of discarded tissues.

"My goodness," Bunsen said. "What a nasty cold! Have you tried Echinacea?"

Newsie glumly held up a mug of herbal tea. Rhonda snickered. "Gina's been pumping him full of it. I think he sneezed flower petals an hour ago."

"Bery fuddy," Newsie grumped. He gave the Muppet Labs duo a serious look. "I foud dis in de Con Ed tunnel under de ciddy. I need you guyd do amalyze id!"

"Meep mee meep," Beaker suggested.

"Yes, Beaker, vitamin C is effective, but perhaps at this stage chicken broth might be more conducive…"

"Coud you jud fid oud whad dis is, please?" Newsie asked, handing the purplish furry glob-in-a-jar over.

"Oh, my," Bunsen said, peering at the sample. "How very fascinating! Beaker, does that look like an example of leeriminus purpurea to you?"

Beaker gave the jar a wary look, but wouldn't touch it. "Meep mee," he said, shrugging, shaking his head.

"Hmm. Most curious! How exactly did you come by it, Newsman?"

"He claims it came off a monster while he was chasing it through the sewers," Rhonda said, rolling her eyes and flipping her bangs out of her face.

"Id looged lig a cadderpillar!" Newsie protested, scowling at the rat. "Id wad gonna bite Gina! Ad dere were odders down dere!" He turned a hopeful face to the scientists, appearing more plaintive without his customary glasses. "I cad warn eberybody widdout proof! Please dell me dis is from a monster so I cad ged by rebord on de air!"

"Well, we'll be happy to analyze it for you, but of course you understand I can't allow unempirical evidence to influence the results," Bunsen said. Newsie sighed.

"Doc, please just tell him it's from a bug or something so he'll lay off about monsters," Rhonda muttered, drawing Bunsen aside. "I think he's feverish."

"I am nod feberish!" Newsie snapped. "I did see a monster! Ad we hab do warm beeble!"

"Great, fine. You've turned over your glob to the lab geeks. Now can we just focus on this report about the ocean caving in the whole undercity?" Rhonda griped, shoving Newsie's laptop with her flashdrive attached back in front of the bundled-up journalist.

"Don't worry, Newsman! Beaker and I will perform extensive tests on this and let you know definitively what it came from tonight!" Bunsen assured Newsie. Beaker meeped assent, trying to sound more positive than he felt. "Ah…do you think you'll be back at the Muppet Theatre tonight? You sound a teensy bit stuffed," Bunsen hedged.

Newsie frowned, sniffling. "I hade habing long sinudes," he muttered.

"Gina wouldn't let him out with her today to go fix the electrics," Rhonda said smugly. "She called me over to Muppetsit and make sure he doesn't run out in the street crying wolf…or monster, or whatever."

"I do nod need a sidder! I'm fi—cough, cough, cough…ugh…"

"Yeah, sure. You sound terrific. Come on, do ya like this computer animation of what'll happen when that wall underground caves in, or what? I thought the little rats fleeing out of every manhole cover in downtown was a cool touch…"

"Come along, Beaker," Bunsen whispered to his colleague. "And don't forget to use the antibacterial hand cream. We wouldn't want to spread an infection."

Beaker nodded, digging the Muppet Labs Antibacterial Lotion (cotton candy scent) from a coat pocket and squeezing a little into his palm as they exited the apartment. Unfortunately, the cream proved much stickier than it had during their lab trials; his fingers adhered to his coat, and when he tried to pull them free, his whole coat tugged over his head, and when he tried to pull that down, his jaunty blue scarf stuck to his nose, and when he meeped and tried to pull his hands free, he tripped and fell in the outer hall, and a potted fake frondy plant which he kicked in his struggles toppled onto him, and bad memories of frondy monsters made him shriek loudly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Beaker! Don't break anything; the Newsman and Gina probably already pay high tenant association fees here! Now come along; we need to get back to the lab and start up the spectromatic genetic destabilizer…" Bunsen paused, reconsidering. "Oh, wait. We still haven't received that replacement halide tube, after the rogue gerbil DNA from that burger wrecked the carbon-chromulator transmogrifier…hmm."

"Meeeeep!"

"Perhaps we ought to contact Dr Van Neuter. He might have an operable genetic analysis setup…didn't he say he was working in a new lab over at that old hotel?" Bunsen mused, ignoring Beaker's muffled cries; the lotion had smeared over his mouth, and he was rapidly losing sensation in his tongue. "I think that might be the better idea. Come on, Beaker!" He realized his assistant wasn't at his side, and turned back, annoyed. "Oh, Beaker! Your scarf looks fine! Now get up and for heaven's sake, retie your shoes before you trip again. Some Muppets need to develop a better awareness of what's right in front of them," he grumbled as he continued on to the elevator.

***

Gonzo looked around at the huddle of monsters conferring in low voices as some kind of greasy tokens exchanged paws. "Hi guys! What's up?"

They all started shamefully, and two or three quickly faded into the dark corridor. Rosie McGurk sighed, clambering to his hindpaws, and gave Gonzo a steady, neutral stare as the daredevil looked confusedly at the monsters all suddenly remembering they had something else to do, somewhere distant from this patch of subterra. "Er…did I interrupt something?" Gonzo wondered.

"Ba habba fragga zook," McGurk explained.

"A betting pool? What on?"

"Er…frabba mukk," McGurk replied evasively, taking Gonzo gently by the shoulder and steering him back toward his cell. The monsters had tried handcuffs, a straitjacket, extra locks, and chickenwire, but thus far nothing had proven successful in keeping the Muppet from wandering the studios at will.

"The show tonight? Yeah, I've been thinking about that…listen, I need some advice," Gonzo murmured. "That fungus guy was really good last time; I need to come up with something really spectacular to beat him! Uh…her. Whatever it is."

"Frah?" McGurk asked, continuing to guide Gonzo along the rocky, dankly dripping corridor.

"Yeah. See, here's what I was thinking: what if I set up two cannons and shot myself between them, over and over, while you put bigger and more dangerous obstacles in the middle after every shot?" Gonzo stared at the feathery-haired monster as the creature stopped, surprised.

"Garabba muh?" he asked.

"Well, sure! I mean, unless you don't want to help me out," Gonzo agreed, waiting for a response. "What do you think? Or…or should I do the trapeze tai chi accordion swallowing instead?"

McGurk flinched. "Magga frah! Uhhh…bah habarra muh gooba?"

"Well, that's where I need some objective input," Gonzo admitted. "I can't decide which would be cooler, a series of consecutively smaller flaming hoops, or consecutively thicker sheets of particle board! I mean, sure, flames are always killer, but I don't think anyone has ever tried to head-butt their way through two sheets of compressed chemically-treated sawdust with asbestos sandwiched between them…I could wear the rose-studded jumpsuit and call it 'Flowers Through the Attic'! Whaddaya think?"

The monster gave it serious consideration. "Er…bagga fragga buh."

"Oh," Gonzo said, his expression clouding. "Yeah, you're right. OSHA regulations against asbestos…I didn't think of that. Oh, well. Flaming hoops it is! Could you come help me apply the kerosene gel to them?"

The whatever appeared so happily earnest McGurk didn't have the heart to refuse. "Bahabba," he agreed, following as Gonzo bounced along oblivious to the stench of the nearby open sewer line. Suddenly a large, sinuous nose with bedraggled whiskers interrupted Gonzo's progress. "Bahg!" McGurk exclaimed, then did his best to look inoffensive as the doglizard threw him a nasty glare.

"Where do you think you are going, you sssssimpletonssss?" hissed the boss' assistant.

"Oh. Uh, hi," Gonzo said agreeably. He indicated the uncomfortable monster behind him. "Rosie and I were about to go prep my act for tonight. Do you work here?"

"Why are you out of your sssscell?"

"I'm out of a lot of things, but I understand you guys have a strict operating budget," Gonzo replied. "Oh! Hey, do you think I could maybe at least get a fresh towel? Something ate mine this morning in the shower."

Eustace blinked in surprise at the prisoner's glibness. "You are ssssupposssed to remain in your ssscell until the sssshow is underway! Our…guesssstsss…are not permitted to roam the ssstudiosss. Did you not ussse the sssuperglue as hisss abominablenessss inssstructed?" he demanded of McGurk.

The pinkish creature turned red, shrugging. "Frah rabba guh!"

Eustace shuddered. "He ate his way out?" Incredulous, he gave Gonzo a look from blue frizzy head to Buster-Brown-clad feet. Summoning his inner monster, the doglizard snarled at Gonzo, "No more essscaping! Ssstay in your room!"

Annoyed, Gonzo argued, "Then how am I supposed to set up my props ahead of time? Good art takes preparation!"

"Er," Eustace gulped, unsure what to do. All the game show prisoners were normally confined to 'F' block in the rough-hewn cages between the studio sets; if this had been any other doomed soul, Eustace would not have hesitated to order his immediate availability for the barbeque pit. However, the boss had specifically singled this bizarre being out for special treatment, and Eustace dared not upset his master. "Ahh…sssso be it. But confine your preparationsss to your sssscell corridor!" He glared at the uneasily squirming McGurk. "Do not make me inform hisss sssliminesss that thisss contessstant requiresss another guardian!"

"Gabba," the monster murmured, downcast.

The doglizard snorted, whopping his long tail once against the rocky floor. When he'd stormed off in another direction, McGurk muttered something insulting about scaled canines under his breath. "Geez," Gonzo said. "There goes a guy who looks like he could use a game of 'fetch.'"

McGurk snorted a laugh. The two picked up their feet once more, heading for the pile of props Gonzo had amassed outside his tiny cell. "Thanks for helping me. I'll be sure to announce you tonight," he offered, but the monster hurriedly waved his hands No.

"Agabba booga muh," he demurred, and Gonzo shrugged.

"Eh, it's cool. Hey, we should add some stuff to make all the hoops burn different colors! And remember, start with the five-foot-diameter one and work down to the six-inch one, okay?"

"Sah ibba?"

"Well, I have to tuck in my nose, but yeah, it fits." Gonzo smiled at his new friend. "Gee, I'm really glad you work here! I don't mean to complain, but honestly, I get the impression there are people around here actually betting against me," he confided.

"Rabba?" McGurk did his best to look surprised. He felt a little sorry for Gonzo…and now he absolutely wasn't going to tell the optimistic daredevil just how much monster money had been thrown down in the betting pool; the house odds favored Gonzo dying by fire. McGurk didn't think so; he'd put in his twenty clawllars for the "death by consumption" category.

Quietly he sat down and helped apply flammable gel to the stack of braided airline-cable hoops, and listened to Gonzo chatter on about his plans once he'd won the contest. He refrained from telling Gonzo that the grand prize was to be allowed to witness the Opening of the Ineffable Dark Scary Portal which the boss had announced as the beginning of the end, midnight on Halloween.

***

Phil Van Neuter was not a happy camper.

To start with, Mulch had ignored his order to file the insect wing samples by variable ugliness instead of alphabetically before he left for his holiday, and it took three hours just to locate that specimen of loquatia creepia the experimental vet needed in order to splice in the missing sequence of the Muppet protoduck genome he'd been trying to replicate inside a modern egg for, oh, two weeks now? How could he possibly grow an insectoid talking duck from scratch without the proper materials? And then his protein-and-vitamin algae drink had been somehow switched with Folger's crystals, which he detested, and he was fairly sure that idiot Thatch was to blame, although he hadn't yet seen the purple monster this morning, so he had no one to yell at. And now someone wouldn't stop ringing the bell!

"Just how am I supposed to concentrate with all this ridiculous nonsense going on?" Van Neuter complained loudly to no one, tromping up the stone steps from the basement lab to the dusty, unheated lobby of the decrepit hotel. His mood, though, swiftly changed when he saw who was on the doorstep. "Oh! Bunnie! Come in, come in!"

Honeydew stepped inside, carefully avoiding the rotting doorframe which looked ready to crumble at the least touch. "Good morning, Phil! What a gloomy day it is out there."

"I wouldn't know, I never see the sun," Van Neuter returned, barely glancing out at the steady rain turning the street even grayer than it had been. He gave a curious look to Bunsen's carrot-haired assistant, whose hands were bandaged and whose mouth was covered by a blue scarf, but then Bunsen was explaining the reason for their dropping in.

"I know you're almost always busy, but I need to request a teensy, weensy little favor," Bunsen said, and produced a small jar which he handed to Van Neuter.

"Pimientos? No thank you," Van Neuter said, puzzled.

"I think that's what was in it originally. However, the specimen currently contained within that jar may be from a heretofore unknown species, and we are unfortunately unable to use our genetic destabilizer to see what exactly it is," Bunsen said.

"Wonderful!" Van Neuter exclaimed, his spirits revived. He beckoned them behind the shoddily-shored-up main staircase, to the stairs leading down to the basement and beyond. "Come on down, and let's see what you have! A mysterious organic glop – how exciting!"

"Oh, thank you!" Bunsen beamed. "I just knew you'd be interested!" He turned his gaze to the slime on the walls as they descended. "So, what have you been up to lately?"

Beaker shivered, his head swiveling to view the sides and roof and steps of the narrow, cold passageway until they made a sudden turn into a large, cluttered room which had originally been the cellar of the hotel. The stairway, he noticed, continued down; he wasn't sure he wanted to know where it went. Nervously he flexed his still-glomped-together fingers inside the bandages he'd had to clumsily wind around them, after Honeydew had grudgingly squirted some oven cleaner on them to unstick them from everything else. Beaker was on the lookout for giant spiders, but nothing more outré than glowing fungus met his wary gaze inside the makeshift laboratory. "Oh, well, it's been mostly redecorating; so nice to have a free space to work in!" Van Neuter said, waving his hands this way and that at the steel shelves of jarred pickled specimens, the dusty stacks of crates, and the faded orange-and-black crepe streamers draped from corner to corner overhead. Beaker looked in surprise at those, but his colleague beamed brightly.

"I noticed! How very festive. Er…not to rush a favor, but do you think you might have time to analyze that sample today? I did rather rashly promise someone I'd have the results tonight," Bunsen said apologetically, but Van Neuter seemed giddy.

"Oh, not to worry, not to worry! You've come to the right questionably licensed vet! Heh heh, my little joke…So! Let's just open this up and see what we have…oooh…it's really slimy, isn't it? How interesting!" Van Neuter played with the furry, slippery glob a bit, sliding it down his fingers like a trick ball. "Oh, and it really stinks, too! Well, this is certainly a delightful find, Bunnie! Do you want to play with it first?"

"Ah, no thank you," Bunsen replied, taken aback. "Is it…enough of a sample to perform tests on?" The glob seemed to be shrinking as he spoke, shedding bits of fur and slime the longer Van Neuter toyed with it.

"Oh, of course, silly me! I get so carried away with a new specimen! Here we go." The vet dumped the sample into a Petri dish, clamped a lid on it, and dropped the whole thing into a contraption which best resembled a copy machine mating with a sewing serger. He tapped a few buttons, waited, then gave the thing an impatient whack on the side. With a feeble gurbling beep, it started up. Van Neuter smiled broadly at the scientists. "I just had this thing serviced last week. It had better be able to perform broad-spectrum mitochondrial photosynthetic globule splitting!"

"Remarkable," Bunsen remarked, studying the machine thoughtfully. "You know, Beakie, we really ought to build something like this! Does it replicate recombinant malformations?"

"Oh yes! And it reticulates every single spline!" Van Neuter bragged.

Beaker shook his head. He didn't think genetic spline reticulation sounded like a good idea, particularly when one didn't know the origin of the genetic sample. As if to confirm his concern, the machine wheezed, chugged, and went into a frenzied shaking.

"Now you just stop that!" Van Neuter exclaimed, kicking the thing's side. It groaned, shuddering and emitting a high whine; the vet kicked it again and again, cursing: "You quit that this instant, you double-cored, chromosomal-partitioning, ungrateful beast! You spit that back out right now or it's no more chewy gerbil offal for you!"

"Meep!" Beaker gulped, eyes wide.

"Perhaps if you set the knob to 'unknown and possibly monstrous donor'?" Bunsen suggested, pointing out the settings scrawled in magic marker next to a washing-machine-style selector.

Van Neuter paused, embarrassed, then chuckled. "Goodness, what was I thinking? That's left over from my dinner last night!" He quickly switched the knob from "extinct larval rhinospider" to the correct setting, and the machine settled down and began humming quietly while it processed the sample. After a second it dinged, and a door at one end swung open, coughing out the purple fur, now smoking and somewhat more crumbly. "Well, hope you didn't need that for anything else! Let's see what it says," Van Neuter said cheerfully, adjusting his goggles (bifocals were so tricky) to read the printout the machine reluctantly spat out in dot-matrix purple ink. "Well, this says it's from a—" Suddenly he paused, realizing the sample was indeed from a monstrous wooly caterpillar species…one which only thrived beneath the streets of New York. Which meant, more than likely, it belonged to… "Hmm," he said, stalling, feeling nervous. "Well. Um. Where did you say you found this?"

"Meep meep meepie," Beaker explained.

"Well, no, technically, the Newsman said it was from the Con Ed tunnels," Bunsen corrected him. "I believe the sewers actually run farther down."

"Um," Van Neuter said.

"What does it say? Are we indeed dealing with a new species?" Bunsen asked.

"Well, no, I wouldn't say new," Van Neuter hedged.

"Don't keep me in suspense, Phil! What exactly do we have?"

"Ahhh…nothing all that exciting I'm afraid! No, no, just a wee little bug, that's right, just a caterpillar. Sorry!" Van Neuter chirped. "Now, Bunnie, I really am sorry, but I have so much to do today, so many genomes to splice into fruit, heh heh, you know the old saying! But it really has been lovely to see you again drop back in soon and we'll have lunch bye bye now!" The vet nearly ran from the room through a narrow doorway; from the dark beyond, the Muppet scientists heard clanging, banging, head-hitting sounds. "Danged broken light bulb!" Van Neuter exclaimed. The slam of another door sounded, and then the two Muppets stood alone in the lab. Beaker looked at Bunsen. Bunsen looked bewildered.

"Er…so…not a monster, then?" he called out, but no reply came. Shrugging, Bunsen turned to go. "Oh, well. I did warn the Newsman that the evidence might not support his theory…"

"Meep mee meepmeep!" Beaker protested, gesturing at the worn-through sample slowly disintegrating on the floor.

Bunsen gingerly picked it up, but it fell apart in his hand, poofing into a shower of purplish dust. "Regrettably, it would seem we're out of material, Beakie…and at any rate, I'm sure Dr Van Neuter knows genetics and rare species better than any Muppet alive. If he says it's only a bug, well then, a Lepidoptera it must be." Bunsen sighed. "It was nice of him to take time out of his day to help, though."

Beaker followed his friend uncertainly back up the stairs. He wasn't sure anything about this had been helpful, but he was glad to get out of the building, even though that meant walking back out in the rain, which seemed even heavier than when they'd gone into the condemned hotel. "Mee meep mee mee mee?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the creepy old edifice with its crumbling brickwork.

"Oh, not to fret, Beaker! We'll be back here again soon! After all, we still have to do a test run of the fear-o-sensor system before Halloween night! You'll get to put the whole system through its paces!" Bunsen responded, as always trying to see the bright side of things.

Beaker started; he'd forgotten all about that! Another look back at the hotel before they turned the sharp angle in the street gave him more cause to worry; he could've sworn he saw something purple with three eyes and green hair staring at him from a third-floor window! "Meeeep! Mee mee meep mee mee—"

"Yes, yes, yes, don't worry, you'll get to explore the third floor and the basement!" Bunsen assured him. "Now come along, Beakie! Let's see if we can find a decent cup of mochaccino around here! If you'll buy, I'll pick up the tab for dinner tonight."

Repeated gestures and hesitations didn't make Bunsen turn around; the bald scientist was more intent on finding a coffeeshop out of the chilling rain. Sighing, Beaker trudged after him, thoughts of purple caterpillars, purple third-floor monsters, and giant spiders swirling unhappily through his brain, so much so that he almost didn't see the delivery truck in time. With a shriek, Beaker leapt back onto the curb, and the truck honked angrily as it zoomed past, soaking Beaker completely as it barreled through the deep water of the street. Carrot-orange hair plastered to his head, Beaker grumbled and hurried to catch up to Honeydew.

He never saw the googly-eyed pink thing and its blue twin, peering at him from a burbling drainage opening at the curb. "Mup-pets," the pink thing murmured. "Yip. Soon."

"Soon. Soon. Float soon. Yip yip yip."

"Yip yip yip yip yip. All float down here. Uh-huh," they agreed in chorus, and vanished.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. _In which the Underlord puts out a hit on an old lady; the YipYips try on funny hats; Gina has an interesting conversation with a troll; and Newsie has cabin fever._

Eustace slipped into the dark control room, afraid to disturb his master, but feeling as though this phone call might be important enough to warrant the interruption…he hoped so, at least. He deeply hoped so. "A-ahem…your…your unutterable ssshadowinesss…"

The merest shift in the darkness couched in darkness, a shadow in a massive black chair, told Eustace he had the boss' attention. Gulping, he choked out: "T-the hosssspital isss calling about that Muppet woman, my lord detessstable…"

"Oh?" The voice betrayed not the slightest emotion. Eustace hated that; it was nearly impossible to tell when or whether the boss was pleased with anything. Easy to tell when he was unhappy, however, so perhaps neutral was good. With the merest tap of a gloved finger on his Gruetooth headset, the boss took the call, turning his voice lighter, slightly less ominous. "Hello?... Yes, this is Mr Crimp. Is she…ah. I see. Yes…yes, it's awful. Does she. I see… How long? Two weeks. Well…perhaps that's for the best. Thank you. It's good to know Auntie's as comfortable as possible right now. Yes. Please keep me informed." The boss hung up, sitting silent for a long while; Eustace did his best to keep his tail still. Finally the shadow spoke to him, firmly and calmly: "Fetch me the Martians."

"Er…of course, ssssire. At onssse," Eustace agreed, backing out of the room. Good grief, how was he supposed to do that? Those raggy things just appeared and disappeared whenever they felt like it! And now he had been ordered to fetch them! What under earth was he going—

"Flun-ky," the blue thing said right in his ear.

"Gaaah!" Eustace cried, cringing.

"Flun-ky jump. Jump. Yip yip. Jump," the pink thing said; it sounded decidedly smug to the doglizard.

"Come in here, boys. I have a job for you," the low voice simply spoke from the control room over the intercom, and Eustace shivered. The fact that he never raised his voice only made the boss more creepy, in the flunky's opinion. He opened the door for the bizarrely jerking string-tentacled things, but ignoring him, they stared confusedly at one another a second before the pink thing pulled the classified ads section from thin air; it appeared to be from today's Times. They huddled together to scan the listings.

"Jooooob. Job. Jobjobjobjob."

"Yip yip yip." The blue thing pointed out a listing with a tiny claw. "Doooog-wal-ker. Job. Jooob. Yip yip yip yip."

"Nope," the pink one disagreed. "Nooopenopenopenope."

"Mm." A short pause. "Dish-wash-er?"

"Hmmmmmm."

"Nope," they chorused, shaking their entire bodies in the negative. "Nooope nopenopenopenope."

"Is there some delay, Eustace?"

"N-no, ssssire! Ah, the, the Martians ssseem to not quite undersssstand what issss required…" The doglizard wished he could sweat; that might actually be preferable to the extreme chill now coursing from his tiny little heart to the rest of him.

"Job in here, boys. In here."

The furry jellyfish creatures both popped their bobbly eyes up at the sound of the imperious voice, looked at one another, shrugged, tore the paper in half and chewed it up before levitating through the door and into the control room. The door slammed behind them. Shaken, Eustace sank to his bench, worried about his responsibilities; the new reality show resumed tonight, and that nearsighted director was a cause for extreme concern. Why, just last week, they'd had to replace no less than two goblins and three Frackles due to missed flamethrower dampeners, collapsing cameras, misplaced light trusses… Eustace rubbed the scaly plates over his eyeballs, desperate to end the migraine before it started tonight, as it surely would. Suddenly he realized the intercom was still activated. He opened his mouth to inform the boss, then froze at what he heard whispered in the next room.

"I allowed you two some leniency when the old bat tripped and put herself in the emergency room, but I am far from satisfied at the results. I am informed she still lives, and is now breathing through tubes. The provisions she made for such an event require her to stay on the machine for at least two weeks."

"Eth-el ma-chine?"

"Yes. The machine is all that's keeping her alive at present. I wish this…ended. Did I not instruct you two to complete this some time ago?"

Eustace cringed, flattening his spine against the cold rock wall behind his sleeping bench. Those things had failed the master? Surely the master's displeasure would fall only on them, and not on his flunky? After all, Eustace hadn't failed to murder a little old lady in her hospital room! The nature of the task sinking in as he listened, Eustace did something very dangerous: he wondered why the boss wanted an old Muppet lady dead…

"Mm. End-ed. Yip yip."

"The. End. Yip."

"Yip yip yipyipyipyipyip uh-huh."

The slightest touch of impatience crept into the boss' voice. "You must finish her off! Do you not comprehend me?"

"The fin-ish?"

"Fin-nish. Yip yip yip."

"Take off that ridiculous helmet and pay attention!"

Eustace gulped, wishing he could simply vanish like those weird monsters seemed to be able to do at will. The boss in a bad mood was not pleasant to be around…and he would be doubly unpleasant when something else went wrong on that stupid show tonight, as it undoubtedly would; he seemed to have a lot wrapped up in that particular project, for some reason…

"Not Fin-nish," one of the creatures corrected the other. "Noooorse. Norse. Yip yip yip."

"Will you stop that!" Something thumped loudly, and Eustace stifled a groan. He turned chill blue at the next, very quiet words over the intercom: "Eustace, surely you have many things to see to before this evening."

"Absssolutely, my lord!" the doglizard yelped, and fled, bearing the pain with a grunt when one of his whiskers caught on the rough doorway to the corridor and plinked loose. Anything, any pain, was preferable to risking the master's ire right now! As he scrambled up from the lowest level, not even considering what he should address first on his list of tasks, things to oversee for his slimy liege, he fervently hoped those two foolish monsters would see the dark and just do whatever it was the master wanted. Whatever it took, whatever the cost, just so Eustace wouldn't receive the brunt of the master's fury if someone dared refuse an order…

***

Gina and Scott followed the coin in the air intently, both of them protesting when a rat swung by on a tiny vine and snatched it before it hit the floorboards. "Hey!"

"Since when is Tarzan a thief?" Scott wondered.

Rizzo chortled, waving the coin from his landing atop the landing. "I ain't Tarzan, I'm…uh…Ratten Hood! I steal from da rich and give to…me!" Cackling, he scurried off with his shiny new dime.

Scott grinned at Gina. "Got another coin to flip?"

"Forget it," she grumbled. "I'll do the tie-in, you whack the board."

"Hey battah battah," Scott rumbled, picking up the hunk of two-by-four they'd designated official crispy-critter-preventer for this somewhat dangerous job. "You sure about this?"

"Might as well. I don't think I'm strong enough to whack you if you start frying," Gina sighed, and they walked together to the junction box powering most of the theatre. Hooking the new board to the dimmers would be next, but far less risky than actually wiring the circuit for the control board directly into the main power supply. Both techies had witnessed what could happen if the process was done improperly, or the power wasn't completely turned off…

Clifford saw them opening the breaker box, and yelled loud enough everyone backstage would hear: "Heads up y'all! Gonna be dark in here! Power going off!"

Gina nodded thanks at him, and pulled on her insulated gloves. Scott switched on the bright battery-powered lantern and held it up over her shoulder. Activity backstage quieted to a hush for once; no one knew quite what the result of this electrical attempt would be. Gina took a deep breath, stilled her nerves, and yanked down the main breaker. The sound reminded her of an enormous engine suddenly cut off; odd silence sifted through the old theatre from the wooden grid high overhead down into the basement. Please please please don't fry me, Gina begged the wire in her hand; she hastily switched off all the subbreakers just to be certain as possible that no current still flowed anywhere in the system. Scott lifted the two-by-four, watching closely. Gina cautiously found the main line in the breaker box and touched her wire stripper to it.

Nothing happened. Breathing a little easier, she quickly stripped the ground, white and black wires on one side of the enormous jumble of them and twined in the respective loose ends from the cord to the new control board, finishing off by capping and insulating the new connections securely through the new breaker switch now dedicated to it. When she nodded at Scott, he hefted the wooden board again, setting the lantern down so he would be able to put the strength of both arms behind the swing, if needed. "Starting up!" Scott bellowed, noticing in his peripheral vision a growing number of Muppets gathering to watch. He hoped it would be anticlimactic.

Gina flipped the main switch, and then the sub-breakers. Light and air movement returned to backstage, and to the rooms below and above the stage-floor level. Last test, she thought, and flipped up the new breaker switch, sending current to the board. The light inside the box came on green. "So far so good," she breathed, stepping back. Scott relaxed, laying down the board. She looked up at him, feeling her heart slowing at last. "Piece o'cake," she said.

Scott grinned. "You should know better than to say that around here!"

"Good point. Let's hook up the dimmers."

Scott turned the new breaker back off and closed the box. "None of you touch this! Hey, uh, Sweetums?" The shaggy monster cocked his enormous head expectantly, eyebrows raising like logs in a flooding river. "Can you guard this while we work on the dimmers, and make sure no one messes with it?"

"Aw, sure!" Sweetums growled, planting hefty feet directly in front of the box and glaring menacingly around at the entire room. "Get away from there!" he yelled at a penguin who was ambling by, startling the flightless bird into sudden – albeit short and ungraceful – flight.

Gina hid a smile as she walked over to the racks of dimmers clustered behind the lighting board off stage left. "Will he let us mess with it now?" she wondered.

"Hope so," Scott replied cheerfully. "Or else their lighting cue tonight will mostly be on…off."

Gina giggled, brushing the light sheen of nervous perspiration from her brow with the back of her glove. Scott gave her a serious look. "Does your Newsie know what you're doing today?" he asked quietly while they began sorting the burned wiring from the still-undamaged sections among the lines leading from the dimmers.

Gina shrugged. "I told him I was putting in some new wiring, yeah."

"Did you tell him we had to do a tie-in?"

"Scott, he has no idea what that is."

"And of course you didn't tell him," Scott pointed out. "You know, I hear you complain all the time how often he puts himself in a position to get hurt with his weird news stories, and here you are chancing life as microwave popcorn."

"You're exaggerating," she argued. "I do not complain about that all the time!"

"Often enough. Hypocricise much?"

"It's not the same thing! I know what I'm doing, I've done this before, I had you right here to knock me away from the current if anything went wrong! Meanwhile he's obsessed with monsters in the sewers!"

Scott paused, a handful of wire resembling toasted worms in one hand. "Cool. Guess that's what happens when all those little kids' parents get tired of feeding the critters and flush 'em down the drains." He frowned at the twisted spread of wires. "I didn't even know copper could fuse with chickenfeed like that…"

Gina stopped, staring glumly at the mess of ruined wiring they'd have to completely replace. "Maybe when Kermit gets back we can talk him into buying a floor-undermount fuse system…this is ridiculous." She sighed, plopping onto the dusty floor to tackle the job, pulling one of the spools of new wire over. "The worst part is, he might be right."

Scott quirked a puzzled brow. "Uh…right about the theatre not having the money, or right about the rats stealing it all and selling it for scrap if it's not nailed down?"

"Not Kermit – Newsie. I went with him down in the tunnels yesterday…and he found something. We don't know what yet, but something weird. I'm starting to think this city might be stranger than I already knew it was."

Scott glanced across the stage, where a line of chickens in pink poodle skirts cawped threateningly at a huddle of penguins sporting slicked-back hairdos and black leather jackets; hard to tell whether they were all about to rumble or to rehearse. "Sure about that?" he asked.

"Scott, I'm…I'm starting to wonder if Newsie might actually be onto something; and it makes me a little…um…" She looked over at Sweetums, still fiercely glowering at everyone within twenty feet. "You know, there really are a lot of monsters around here. I didn't really notice before."

On cue, Big Mama stomped through the door leading to the tunnel beneath the stage, and fixed the two techies with a plus-sized glare. "Hey! A little warning next time? I was right in the middle of doing my claws!" She waved a circular power sander in the air, let out a loud hmph, and stomped away again.

Scott snickered. "Right. 'Cause they're so quiet and easy to miss."

Gina didn't smile. "Okay, look…these guys all seem like good people. But it does make me wonder whether Newsie's theory about creepy things underground has any merit. I mean, before you came here, did you still believe in monsters?"

Scott thought about it while he attached a new groundwire to one of the dimmers. "Huh. I guess not. I mean, it's not like monsters make the news much, and these guys just get lumped in with the other Muppets."

"Right! But…what if…what if there really are evil monsters?" Gina felt cold suddenly, and drew her plush hoodie jacket tighter over her shoulders.

"I guess if you're willing to admit the existence of monsters at all, that has to be a possibility," Scott said. He shrugged. "Of course, that could just be the whole Halloween season getting to you both. Especially your boyfriend. I noticed he's a little jumpy lately."

Gina sighed. "No, he's always jumpy. Comes from years of things falling on him at a moment's notice." She shivered. "Did we turn the heat off or something? Brrr!"

"Hola," Pepe purred at her, popping into view beside the nearest dimmer rack. "I thought jou might like the cooling breezes on that beautiful sweaty brow! Heh heh heh." He showed off an ornate Japanese fan before resuming waving it at her.

Grumbling a curse under her breath, Gina simply swatted the shrimp away and tried to concentrate on the wiring job. "Dang, left my C-wrench in my toolbox," Scott muttered, starting to unkink his long frame from his crouch, but Gina shook her head, glad for the chance to move around a little.

"Stay put, I'll get it. You want a coffee?"

"Is the frog green? Heck yeah."

"Coming up." Gina approached the breaker box cautiously, but Sweetums only gave her a friendly nod. She retrieved Scott's crescent wrench from his toolbox near the monster's massive left foot, noting uncomfortably in passing just how sturdy those ragged-clothed legs appeared, and how wide that floppy mouth seemed… Determined to shake off unreasonable fears, she stared up at the monster, and his bulging eyes swung down to view her directly. "Hey, um, Sweetums?"

"Yeah?" This close, she could smell his breath: onions, tuna, and something oddly spicy.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure!" The monster seemed the essence of good cheer, but Gina still gave careful thought to the phrasing of her question.

"Um…I've heard some pretty wild rumors about monsters living in the tunnels under the city. Do you know anything about that?" She realized she was holding her breath, and consciously took another.

Sweetums blinked his huge yellowy eyes. "Why, sure! My cousin Morty is the Central Park Troll! He works under the bridge, a'course, but when it's cold he usually sleeps in the old aqueduct tunnel in the park!"

"Oh…okay," Gina said, trying to process past the idea of a bridge troll in Central Park. "Uh…I was actually more concerned about anything you might've heard about monsters down in the sewers, or the power cable tunnels. Or the subways," she added, and the monster's eyes widened.

"Uh…yeah! I have heard stuff like that. Ya know, you never can tell whether what they print in the tabloids is true, but yeah…supposedly there's a gang of Pesties that took over the whole four-five-six line, and they're based in the Bronx…haw haw haw, but you never know about that stuff!" He sobered a bit. "But you already know about the portals to Grouchland in the sewers, right? I mean, everyone has to keep an eye out for those when you're down there! Morty wasn't lookin' where he was goin' once, and next thing he knows, a buncha Grouches are yellin' at him ta get off their dump! Haw haw haw!"

"So…so you haven't seen any giant monster bugs down there?" Gina asked, thinking of Newsie's claim that whatever he saw moved like a caterpillar.

Sweetums looked startled. "Gosh, I never go down there! It's…it's…" The shuffling, shaggy beast seemed very hesitant to speak. He leaned close, and Gina braced her feet, closing her eyes as that pungent breath wafted across her face. "It's kinda dark and scary!"

Gina leaned back, staring in surprise at the troll. "Uh…yeah," she said, at a loss for a coherent reply.

Sweetums shook his head, glancing worriedly around the backstage area, but no one seemed to be paying attention to their conversation. "You don't wanna go down there, trust me! It'll mess up your fur for sure!" he claimed, apparently in complete seriousness.

Gina started to grin, then bit it back, not wishing to hurt the monster's feelings. "Gotcha. Thanks." She took a couple of steps away, remembering she was supposed to grab some coffee for herself and Scott, then turned back to ask, "What exactly are Pesties like?"

The monster blinked, then frowned, thinking it over. "Uhhhh…well, they're huge, and bloodthirsty, and they wear stripey socks to cover their tracks on dark and stormy nights!" He shrugged. "Least that's what they say."

"Oh," Gina said. "And…and they're in the subways?"

"Maybe." Sweetums waggled a giant finger at her. "Remember, the tabloid said they were in the four-five-six line, but ya can't believe everything ya read!" As Gina nodded agreement, the monster added, "They might be in all the lines! Well…'cept maybe the number seven train; I mean, who wants to go to Flushing? Haw haw!"

"Right," Gina agreed weakly. "Thanks, Sweetums."

"Sure, anytime!" the affable troll said, and abruptly reached down to swat away a chicken who'd strayed too close to the breaker box. "Hey! No touching!"

"Bawwwk!" the chicken protested, quickly smoothing down her ruffled feathers. "Buk bu-kawk buh-bawk!" Having tossed that insult over her shoulder, she strutted off.

"I do?" Sweetums wondered, startled. He huffed into a paw, sniffing his breath. "Uh…sorry 'bout that…" Surreptitiously he pulled a giant piece of peppermint gum from a pocket and chewed it. No one was gonna accuse him of having po'boy breath in this classy joint!

More ill at ease than she'd been at the start of the conversation, Gina hurried down to the canteen, hoping the Chef hadn't touched the little Keurig machine she'd brought over to supply coffee which didn't taste like fresh-caught salmon. It sounded unhappily as though her dear Muppet was more right about an underground menace than even he suspected.

***

That particular Muppet, by six o'clock that evening, was bored out of his foam. There was nothing worse, Newsie reflected miserably, than not being sick enough to sleep it off under a warm blankie, but being still too sick to go to his job. Rhonda had departed an hour ago after extracting a promise from him that he wouldn't attempt to leave the apartment, at least until Gina came home. He'd alternated moping in the bedroom with moping in the living room, with occasional side trips to mope in the bathroom or stare mopily at the food in the 'fridge. Nothing sounded good to his taste buds, so he dutifully fixed himself another mug of the herbal tea mix Gina had left for him, stirred in a candied spoon of thick clover honey, and planted himself on the living room sofa to catch the news program which he, in a just universe, would be anchoring right now. Glumly sucking the honey-spoon, he sighed and stared at the opening credits and Harve Bergeron's super-shiny smile. Hmph. At least I don't have to do a comb-over, Newsie thought, then chided himself for being critical of the new anchorman. Don't be all sour grapes! Harve's been around almost as long as you have…and he's tall…and the boss likes him…never mind. Scowling, the Newsman watched the journalist who'd been picked to greet the viewers from the big desk every weeknight launch into the day's top stories.

Newsie sipped his tea, trying to focus solely on the stories themselves; he prided himself on being current. However, he couldn't help a satisfied snort when Bergeron flubbed the intro to a piece on Syria, and when the feed returned from a commercial break to show the anchor chatting up the weathergirl, who seemed distinctly displeased by the attention, Newsie shook his head and frowned. Unprofessional! Everyone at KRAK knew the weathergirl was only interested in working-class snails; she had a thing for smooth shells, the station gossip went. Yet here was Bergeron hitting her up, and on-camera, no less! Good grief! You'd never catch me looking like such a buffoon, Newsie thought, at first pleased with himself. Then a painful sneeze reminded him of his own not-the-anchor-and-not-even-at-work status, and he scowled deeply. Fastening another Wheeze-rite Strip onto his nose, bringing the total to six going from the bridge of his nose to about the halfway point along it, he took as deep a breath as he could, and sighed. This was horrible. There wouldn't even be a Muppet News segment tonight.

Confirming his thoughts, Bergeron smiled at the camera and said, "The Newsman is off tonight, so instead of Muppet News we're introducing a new segment: Scene in New York! That's s-c-e-n-e," Bergeron added, unnecessarily since the title graphic spelled it out. "For our first installment, I paid a visit this week to one of the heritage landmark museums open in Times Square: the Stringy Corset Galleria!"

The WHAT? Newsie wondered, startled. Unfortunately, the "museum" proved to be part dimly-lit exhibits of Victorian corsets on modern mannequins, part alternative lingerie shop. In a taped sequence, Harve leaned over a counter full of stacks of sequined and feathered underthings to chat with a bored-looking woman in fishnets and glossy black vinyl. "So, how many people actually buy bras made out of used Nantucket crab traps?" Harve asked cheerily.

The woman, presumably the store proprietor or museum curator, answered in a single-breath monotone: "Lots of women who want to really make a splash at the clubs. Look, mac, are you gonna buy anything or what?"

Newsie shook his head, eyes wide. This? This was what Blanke had okayed to sub in for his Muppet News report? Oh dear sainted Murrow – I need to get well right NOW! He remained glued to the sofa, taking in the awful "report" like a three-train pileup, until Harve, smirking, turned back to the camera in the news studio.

"Each week, I'll take you to one of the many, many fascinating places that make this city the greatest place to live on earth! Coming up…can the Jets pull it together? Next, on Big Apple News." The Newsman slumped, dismayed. They're making that smarmy excuse for Harve to visit questionable establishments a regular segment? Does that mean Blanke is cutting Muppet News? No! Fearfully he fidgeted with the blanket wrapped around his body. No! They can't! I have a contract! Even now, Rhonda was surely working on the final details of their presentation about the cracks in the ConEd tunnel. That fur! I have to get the analysis back on that stuff! Then I can actually tell everyone about the monsters, warn them, get the city to DO something!

Nodding fervently to himself, he sank back into the generous sofa cushions, lost in thought, ignoring the sports segment, looking up only long enough to register the forecast for tomorrow was for partly cloudy skies and a slightly warmer day. Hopefully Gina would allow him out, with the rain past. Deciding he was tired of waiting, Newsie roused himself and hunted down the phone, dialed the Muppet Theatre, and punched in the extension number for the Lab before Pops could finish saying hello. He drummed impatient yellow fingers on the sofa arm until Beaker answered: "Meepo?"

"Uh…Beaker! This is the Newsman. Did you guys get around to—"

"Meep! Meep mee meep meep meep mee!"

"What?" Newsie frowned at the phone; he heard Beaker's frustrated sigh.

"Meep, mee meep meep meep, mee," Beaker explained slowly.

"I have no idea what you're saying!" Newsie barked, desperately needing the results of that monster sample test. He had to get that to the studio as soon as possible! Even now, even tonight, out in that chilly drizzle, more people might vanish! He had to stop that, had to warn the public, this was his duty and his –

"Beaker, if you're ordering olives on that, please tell them only green ones; I detest black olives on pizza!" Honeydew's voice sounded in the background. Newsie heard a muffled exchange, with Beaker meeping, and Honeydew saying, "The Newsman? Oh dear, I'd almost forgotten about him! Here, let me have that. You go pick up our pizza… What do you mean you didn't order it yet? Honestly, Beakie, then call them and get our regular pepperoni-and-sardine deep-dish…" After more meeping, the phone clattered, and finally Honeydew came on the line: "Er, hello, Newsman?"

"Dr Honeydew! I need the results of that test!" Newsie said.

"Oh! Oh, yes, of course, I'm so sorry…"

"I understand you're busy," Newsie said, reining in his impatience. "I really do appreciate your running the analysis for me. Is there any chance you can have it sent here, or –"

"No, I mean, I'm sorry: your sample was not from a monster."

Newsie sat back, shocked. "What? B-but…I saw it! It looked like a caterpillar, with purple fur, and slimy legs, and…and nasty big teeth!" He swallowed, recalling just how close to chomping his beloved those teeth had come.

"Well, er, perhaps a trick of the light made it seem larger than it actually was. You see, your sample came back as a simple wooly caterpillar. Not uncommon this time of year, what with the cooler fall we've had recently."

"No!" Newsie insisted, "That was no normal insect, Dr Honeydew! It was…it was huge! It was monstrous! Caterpillars, even wooly ones, do not commonly have four-inch fangs!"

"I'm sorry, Newsman. I wish I could be more helpful," Honeydew said, sounding genuinely regretful.

Newsie took a deep breath, swallowed down his anger, and forced himself to speak calmly. "I…I see. Well. Thank you for…for checking it."

"Of course! Anytime. Will you, er…will you be back at work tomorrow? Fozzie is currently in the hallway outside wailing because he heard the news wire go off, and it's almost time for curtain…"

"Why would the news wire scare Fozzie?"

"Oh, he's filling in for you. He seems to think something is going to fall on him…tsst, tsst, tsst! Well, I hope you feel better soon, Newsman. Take care. Beaker! Beaker, what have I told you about teasing the Plutonian Flytrap? We'll need that plant for the haunted charity walk setup!" Frantic meeping, a scuffle of feet, and a loud crash followed before the line went dead. Unhappily, Newsie hung up.

How could that slimy little fur sample not be from the monster Newsie had chased into the depths of the tunnels? Drawing the blanket around his shoulders, the Newsman hopped off the couch and paced restlessly, worried. What now? Those things are still down there, but without proof, who'll believe me? Blanke would cut my budget permanently…Rhonda would make fun of me…the other Muppets would think I was being monsterist…then again, can I absolutely trust the monsters who work at the theatre? What if some of them are spies? Good grief, what if there are tunnels right under the theatre? He groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. He'd never even thought of that! And Gina was over there right now, helping to restore power to the lighting system! Oh frog! I have to get down there tomorrow, have to check the basement, have to block off any possible entrance from below! Maybe, he thought, he could enlist the rats' help with that. He'd seen more than a few new whiskers around the past few days; his brain hadn't even made the connection between that and the rats who'd been protesting in the street until now! Didn't a couple of those rodents seem familiar? He shook his head, annoyed; Rhonda would accuse him of being prejudiced if he ever said this, but many of the rats really did look a lot alike, so it was hard to tell for sure…

He paced around the entire apartment, thinking, planning. He would be back at work tomorrow, both at the news station and at the theatre. No question, no arguments, no matter if he couldn't breathe or talk or move without shivering. He had to go in.

After some minutes of unhappy thinking, he felt exhausted. Tomorrow was going to be rough, if how he felt right now was any indication. He climbed back onto the sofa and rewrapped himself in robe and blankie, tugging up his furry orange-and-brown socks and bunny slippers for good measure. He had to heal as much as possible, as fast as possible. Feeling determined, he tried to turn his focus from internal stress to external distractions, flipping through the cable channels, reminding himself that Gina said worrying over his problems only weakened his immune system, and that he ought to find something positive to occupy his mind. Game show…game show…ugh, reality show…what the heck is THAT?

He stopped his surfing at a bizarre spectacle: in a street set festooned with fake cobwebs and orange streamers, blazing jack-o'lanterns and leering floating ghosts of crepe and tattered cloth, people dressed as large monsters danced and sang. "It's the most mon-, monsterful tiiiime of the year! There'll be skeletons dancing and goblins a-prancing and pumpkin-spiced beeeer…in the most monsterful tiiiime of the year!" The strange dance, which made Newsie think of a Maypole festival, wound up and down the Halloween-themed set, with the camera zooming in on various furred, horned, scaled, clawed creatures all apparently having a wholesomely good time simply swirling about and tossing sparkly confetti or tiny spiders into the air. He shuddered, certain he'd just seen a handful of what he'd taken for plastic spiders actually crawl off the set. What the hey IS this? He dragged up the cable guide, which proved unhelpful; it listed the program as "Halloween Celebration: holiday variety show feat. dance numbers." Right. And Marvin Suggs is PETA-approved, he thought with a snort. Unfortunately, this brought on another coughing fit. As he buried his sore nose in the fragrant steam of his tea-mug, he heard the channel's announcer outlining the night's lineup: "You're been watching the Halloween Spectacular here on MMN! Later tonight, catch the Muppaphones on Carl! Up next: the most amazing stunt contest reality show ever televised – it's Break a Leg! Right here, on MMN!"

"Frog no," Newsie groaned, switching the channel over to one of the big networks' nightly news shows to watch the last couple of segments, although seeing well-paid correspondents covering actual health, science, and arts stories didn't improve his much-slighted mood. He looked up eagerly when the front door opened, and Gina stepped in, her arms laden with bags from a nearby grocer's. "Hi beautiful! Can I help?" he asked, hastening to offer a hand while she gently kicked the door closed.

Gina looked down at her ill Muppet, the contrast between his bright and hopeful eyes and the multiple plastic strips over his long nose, his uncombed hair, and layers of clothing and blanket resembling the royal robes of a questionable street monarch making her pause and try not to smile. "Hi, cutie. No, I'm fine, but thank you. Feeling any better?"

"Absolutely," Newsie proclaimed, then sneezed. He looked embarrassed as he tucked the tissue into a pocket. "Um. Much better!"

Sighing, Gina carried the makings she'd bought for grilled Monte Cristos and fresh veggie soup into the kitchen. Newsie followed her, doing his best to appear cheerful and all ready to launch himself back into his work. Gina didn't buy it for a second, but after what she'd heard today… "Is it going to rain tomorrow?"

"Uh…the forecast says no."

"I don't think you're ready to go back yet," Gina said, but stopped his protest with an upraised hand. "However…maybe you need to anyway."

"Er," Newsie said, his prepared arguments choked off. "I…I do?"

Gina sat down at the kitchen table, indicating for Newsie to join her. When he settled on the opposite chair, she took his fuzzy hands in her own, softly stroking his fingers; Newsie waited, silent, recognizing she was trying to decide how to begin whatever she needed to say. Finally, quiet words emerged: "Aloysius…I think you should investigate the undercity more."

He blinked, surprised. "I should?"

She sighed. "Against my better judgment…but you're the only one who's even going to touch a story this weird. And I heard something today that might be useful to you."

"Okay," Newsie said, leaning closer. Struck suddenly by the fact that his love was encouraging his work despite her own misgivings, he took her hand in his and kissed it. "I love you."

Gina softened into a smile, and leaned over to kiss his nose. "And I you, my brave journalist." She took a deep breath. "So, while I was at the theatre today, I had a talk with Sweetums…"

Newsie shut his mouth for once, realizing any comment would be superfluous, and listened.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. _In which Deadly reunites with his old college chum Pew; a Turkish dancer skewers hearts and a head; and Gonzo's explosive act brings the house down._

"Got the black powder?"

"Blah," Rosie McGurk confirmed, grunting as he dragged the smaller of the two cannons behind him to the backstage holding area of the game show set.

"Great. Plungers?"

"Blah."

"Extra hoops?"

"Blah."

"Kerosene gel?"

"Blah," McGurk sighed, pausing for breath before heading back to get the other cannon. Gonzo paced him, scanning a checklist, though McGurk had no idea who had let the Whatever use a printer around here. Or maybe Gonzo had brought the entire checklist with him when he first auditioned, which was a somewhat disturbing idea.

"And my lucky cornhusk doll?" Gonzo asked anxiously, looking around for the first gift Camilla had ever given him. Tiredly, McGurk held up the fragile, yellowed effigy of a chicken made from cornhusks and string. "Great! Then we're all set! Just, uh, just put the other cannon over there. That should make it easier to pull up onstage."

"Ugga bluh," McGurk agreed wearily, trudging to the second cannon and bracing his shoulder under the rope. "Urrrrrrruuuuggghh!"

"Put your hump into it, Riff!" Gonzo chortled, in a terribly good mood. "I can't wait for Camilla to see this! She's just gotta vote for me tonight, right? I mean, heck, I bet everyone will, but she's really the one whose opinion counts to me," he confided.

"Rabba," McGurk sighed, straining to get the cannon in place. With a groan, he dropped the rope, realizing that actually dragging it onto the stage was going to be far worse than the trip up from Dungeon No. Sixteen; they'd borrowed the pieces from the set of the pirate-themed matchmaking show 'ARRRR of Gold!' So far, no one had complained about the missing ten-pounder and twelve-pounder. McGurk thought disgustedly that the nomenclature of cannon was unhappily deceptive; it was the actual cannonballs which weighed only ten or twelve pounds. The guns were a great deal weightier…and Gonzo was going to have a frackle of a time keeping his trajectory level between them, as light as he was. McGurk was more than content to leave the engineering to the daredevil tonight, and only be responsible for lighting the special chain-fuses which Gonzo had devised to feed into the black-powder pans like machine gun belts, and setting up the hoops for the Whatever to zoom through on each pass between the smoking mouths of the big guns.

"Can't you just smell the excitement?" Gonzo asked, breathing in deeply, his eyes wide and shining in the dim red lighting backstage.

"That's Virgil," a passing monster growled, whereupon another one smacked the first one, caving in its bulging eyeballs.

"Hey! It wasn't me!" the attacker huffed before both of them flinched under the cane of the director.

"Quiiiet! Quiiiet on zee set! Eet is almost ze curtain time!" Pew snarled, swinging his cane in a wide circle just over his head; a trollish creature in ragged plaid and jeans grunted in surprised pain at the whack to his bullhorned skull. "Places! All performerrrs get into zee holding area! Ah need a sound zheck!"

The Frackle adjusting the mikes at the judges' table nodded, turned to the smaller monster next to him, and solidly whacked its fat nose. "Whooonk!" it cried into the first mic. Angered, it backed away a step, and the Frackle promptly grabbed its nose and honked it next to the second mic. "Hoooonk!" Seething, the little blue monster retreated again, but before the Frackle could repeat the nose-grab, it swung a hairy fist and konked the Frackle's chin. "Ughhh," the Frackle groaned into the third mic, sinking to the floor. Pew nodded curtly.

"Ah need all zee mikes!" he yelled, whirling around to face backstage; off stage left, Snookie Blyer yanked his lapel mic out of range of a grabbing orange monster with green, cone-shaped horns.

"Yeah, you'll be checking my mic when this place freezes over, buddy!" Snookie snapped at the unbalanced monster, toppling it with one shove of his hand and stepping over it as he advanced to center stage. "I'm here. Let's get this farce underway."

"Oh, wow! I've been looking forward to this all day!" B.D. said, lumbering over to his seat at the judges' table and plopping into it with a loud thump.

"Mnngh! Mnnngh mnnnn!"

B.D. started, realizing something was squirming beneath him, and half-rose to find Shakey squashed on the seat. "Hey! Get outta my chair!" B.D. growled, tossing the flattened monster like a Frisbee; Hem caught him, eyes widening.

"Cool, delivery!" Hem muttered, immediately stuffing the third judge into his enormous black hole of a mouth.

"It's not delivery, it's—" B.D. began, but Pew's howl drowned all else out.

"QUIIIIEEEEET! Camera one, you weel pan zee judges! Ah want zee best reaczun zhots you can manage, you poor ehscuse for a lens zhockey! Camera le too, you ztay weeth zee host," Pew shouted, pointing first at the audience, then at the judges' hairy feet below the colorful bunting draping the table. "Ze camera tree, you must always keep zee stunt performair in ze sight, no mattair how dradful an awfeel his demise! And camera four, you altairnate from ze audience to ze performair! Do you pathetic marons all compre'end zis?" Pew finished by indicating with wild sweeps of his cane first Snookie (who ducked just in time), then the ceiling, then waggled in the direction of center stage. The four camerafrackles looked at their director, looked at each other, shrugged, and turned their lenses on whatever Pew had pointed at. "Raht! Stand by on all ze cameras! Let in ze audience! And everyone, zhut ze hail up!"

"Wow, he's grouchy today," Gonzo observed.

"I resent that!" grumbled Dan Rather-not as he slouched by. "He's nowhere near mean enough to be a Grouch!"

"I thought you'd rather not be here," Gonzo said, grinning.

The Grouch scowled at him. "Quit stealin' my lines, kid! Oh, and – break a leg! Heh heh heh." Chuckling nastily, the Grouch hurried offstage to find a seat down center, where he could boo the performers close enough for them to actually hear it.

"Pew, you old duffer!"

Everyone in the backstage area turned at the sound of that deep, melodious voice. A sinuous, ghastly pale dragon in a tattered tuxedo jacket approached, leading by the arm a taller man also formally dressed, but with far fewer holes in his clothing. The man had a youthful, oval face and short curly brown hair, but his eyes were obscured by stylish shades. In his free hand he gently tapped along a silver-tipped ebony cane with a dragon-head grip. "Ho ho, how delightful to find you actually gainfully employed! Long time no spook, my friend!" the dragon continued, smiling toothily, and Pew broke into a scraggly grin.

"Why by fruity Saint Marmalade, eef it isn't mah old roomie Daidlee!" Pew exclaimed, throwing his arms wide for a hug; Uncle Deadly gently turned him to actually face him, and the two long-snouted creatures whacked each other on the back, growled, laughed, and broke into a happy chant together accompanied by a bizarre pawshake which Pew may or may not have flubbed: "Horrendos etiam cum illis congressus!"

"Ah, those were the days," Uncle Deadly sighed, wiping a sentimental tear from one ghoulish eye. To his companion, the ghostly dragon explained, "Pew and I burned many a lantern of midnight oil together at Oxford!"

"I never knew you went to Oxford, Deadly," the well-dressed gent murmured, impressed.

Pew chortled. "Zen he did not tell you it was ze Barsolamew Oxfaird School uff Eestrionics in Jersaiy? Hah, hah! Deed he tell you how many skirts fell for his eemprezhion uff ze Falstaff?"

"Erm, later, Pew old man," Deadly demurred, shoving his companion forward. "I've brought a guest! This is my friend Count Eh– erm – let's just call him Countie, shall we? He's traveled far and long, from distant lands where the papaya blooms and the native girls all roll their R's most charmingly!"

"Ahh," Pew said, managing to shake the man's hand on his fourth attempt, when Deadly finally grabbed both their hands and smacked them together. "Brazeel?"

"San Juan, actually," the man said, smiling.

Pew abruptly burst into off-key song: "When ah get back to San Juan –"

Deadly proclaimed, in an oddly dramatic baritone: "I know a boat you can get on!" The two old chums chortled loudly, and Deadly said, "Ah, what memories! We had the finest all-monster production of 'West Side Story' ever staged!" He turned to his guest. "I was a superb Tony, naturally!"

"All-monster? Who played Maria?" Countie wondered.

"Er…"

"Wail, we were zumwhat zhort of monsters of the gentle persuasion, you see," Pew explained. "So ah sang zat part…but enough about zat! Heh, heh, ah am certain mah old roomie has told you many sordeed tales uff how we used to raise a little heck in ze dorms and ze inzhurance rates in ze theatre!"

"Uh…no."

"Ah! Too risqué! Zen he must haff told you all about ze time we played ze Barber of Zeville for tips to make our way through ze last zemester, no?"

"Sorry, no," Countie apologized, and added before Pew could further reminisce: "Actually, he's never mentioned you, but it's very nice to meet you anyw—"

"Ho ho, such a kidder!" Deadly laughed loudly, clapping Countie on the back so hard he began coughing. "Would you terribly mind, old bean, if we stayed to watch your skillful direction of this varietal venue of vagrants? It's his first trip to New York, and I'm showing him the sights the tourist brochures would never, ever mention."

"Uff course!" Pew said, straightening his hunched back a bit proudly. "Mah show is now in ze top ten of ze ratings, deed you know?"

"Astounding, truly," Deadly agreed, dodging back a step when Pew swung around to yell randomly:

"You! Ah saw zat! Put zat back whair you found it!"

The judges looked perplexedly at one another; Hem stifled a somewhat guilty burp. Everyone else shrugged and went back to what they'd been doing, as the audience crowded in. Deadly spotted the Great Gonzo among the anxiously shuffling contestants and their monster handlers down in a large pen behind the stage. "Aha! Countie, my friend, now's the time to get out your autograph tablet!"

"Uff course! Ah would be delighted to sign mah illustrious name for—" Pew began, but Snookie, noticing the trio as he paced the stage, interrupted.

"We're not adding a new contestant, are we?" he called down, indicating the visitor.

"Eef I zhoose to add anothair worthless piece of cannon foddair to zis mix, what concern is it uff yours, you wash-éd up Guy Smiley impostair?" Pew snapped in reply.

"Fine, whatever. Just make sure I get the right cue cards this time, you sightless cine-hack!" Snookie retorted.

Angrily, Pew grabbed their visitor by the head, mumbled a quick apology, and moved his claws down to the man's shoulder. "Ah see as well as any monstair here, even zis strangely furless, oddly tall creatchair! Ah am not sightless, ah am a veezhonairy!"

"That figures," Snookie muttered, coming closer to give the stranger a once-over. "Hey, uh, can you, uh…actually see anything? –Not you, pipecleaner-nose," he stopped Pew before the director could argue.

"Not much," Countie admitted, with a wry smile. It softened his serious face, and Snookie abruptly felt sorry for the man. Snookie crouched at the edge of the stage, impressed when the visitor oriented on the sound of his movements and gingerly approached him. "You must be the show host," Countie said.

Snookie nodded, stopped in self-annoyance, and spoke aloud, "That's right, pathetic though it is. Guess you could say it's a living, though even that's stretching it. Snookie Blyer, kid." He leaned closer to whisper, "Believe me, you won't miss anything tonight that you'd actually want to see."

"Snookie…hey! Weren't you on Swift Wits years ago?" Countie asked, brightening.

Snookie winced. "Still am, thanks for the memory." He was about to make some polite parting comment when the visitor, with an open, earnest expression which made his handicap seem irrelevant, reached a hand up, something flat and gray in his palm.

"Could I have your autograph?"

Snookie blinked, startled. "My…you want my…" He peered down at the thing the stranger offered and realized it was a thin clay tablet in plastic wrap; Countie fished a wooden stylus out of a pocket and handed that up as well. Touched, Snookie scratched his name deeply into the damp clay and gave it carefully back. He watched as the man brushed his fingertips over the ingrained signature and smiled.

"Thanks," Countie said. Uncle Deadly shook his head, but with a tolerant smile.

"Hey, back at ya," Snookie said, trying to sound nonchalant, as though he gave out autographs to groupies all day long, the feeling of gratitude abruptly unwelcome as the circumstances of his life all crashed back when Pew yelled again for places, walked into the fence corralling the performers, and cursed loud and long in Mock French. Snookie took a deep breath, dusting off his knees. "Enjoy the show, kiddies."

Deadly cast a baleful eye on the host as he strode off. "Kiddies! That upstart wasn't even a bit of felt in his father's coat when I was gracing the boards…"

"I think the show's starting," Countie said, taking Deadly's arm again. "We should probably find a seat."

"Good point," Deadly agreed, "Before all the good ones are eaten!" Together they hurried around the stage to the audience rows, managing the steps far better than Pew as the director shoved a soundfrackle aside, tripped over the cord the monster had been trying to tape down, and berated a post for the offense.

Gonzo sighed, looking around at his competitors. "Guess that guy was a VIP or something. That looked like Uncle Deadly with him, but I thought he couldn't leave the theatre…"

"Habba pagga," McGurk explained.

"Monster hall pass? Oh, okay. Hey, did you remember to grease the cannon barrels?"

McGurk nodded; it had made the guns almost impossible to maneuver, but for some reason Gonzo had wanted them slippery. "Faraggabba buh."

The Whatever nodded, then froze, eyes shooting open wide. "You…what? No! I meant the insides!"

"Ulp," McGurk said, then tried to get out of the pen, but a very large purple-furred thing with sharp teeth beat him back. "Mugabba frah buggah!" he complained, but his voice was drowned out by the opening theme, loudly if somewhat raggedly played by the Mutations.

The audience roared. Ropelights chased across the stage edge and around the judges' table, and Snookie, with his widest smile, stepped into the spotlight. "Gird your loins, grab your Dramamine, and go find your TV remote, folks! That's right, it's time for the next ipecac of an episode of the scariest stunt contest anywhere – it's – Break a Leg!" he shouted the intro, and what sounded like two or three hundred monsters yelled the title along with him. "Tonight, for the first time, we'll be taking votes from you, the viewers! After each performer survives, assuming they do, we'll show you the number to call to vote for them, and tomorrow night in a special show the lowest-ranking contestant will be exterm—er, eliminated! All local taxes surcharges and fees for gullibility from your phone company will apply." He kept smiling through the wild cheering and snarling and yipping coming from the vast sea of fur and claws and teeth just beyond the bright lights, strictly holding in his urge to flee screaming from so many ravenous monsters. At least they were more interested in the show than him, he thought, deeply glad Muppets couldn't sweat; that camera closeup on him would've shown a host dripping with nervous perspiration otherwise.

He checked his cue cards. "Your contestants tonight, culled from the auditions and the first round of burnups, blowouts, and bombs, are…" He paused dramatically before each name in order to give the camera ops a chance to actually zoom in on the daredevils. "The magnificent mystery of the Near East, the presumably lovely and definitely dangerous Jasmine Fatwah!"

"Frahhhh," McGurk sighed, his screwup with the cannons forgotten as all eyes turned to the veiled and otherwise scantily clad sword-swallower. In contrast to the other performers crowded into the pen, she had no one stepping on her toes, her brandished blades keeping everyone easily at bay. Her fierce eyes glared at the camera.

"The Muppet with a thousand lives, the Great Gonzo!"

Gonzo beamed and waved, thinking, Right here, chickie! Hope you're watching!

Surprised, Countie turned to his guide for the evening. "Gonzo's here? In this…reality…stunt…whatever show this is?"

"I was going to advise you to get his autograph," Deadly sighed.

"Maybe we can catch him after the show," Countie mused hopefully.

"I don't think dead Muppets are able to employ their best penmanship…"

Snookie continued onstage: "The man with the bronzed tongue –earplugs now, folks – Jimmy Joe Bob Fred Ebeneezer McCoy!"

The rustic Muppet removed his chaw a moment to warble tunelessly, "Oh, th' suuuun shiiiines bright, on my ol' Kentucky boooones…melanoma on my neck, I do feeeelll…" The small brown goblin assigned care of that particular stunt singer didn't even get a chance to groan when a shoe hurled at the thrumming throat flattened the smaller creature instead. The other performers protested the hail of objects and screaming rats raining from the audience into the holding pen; Gonzo ducked under one of the taller monsters, and the sword dancer cleared a swath toward the karaoke mangler.

Snookie checked to make sure the sword now at the nose of the singer was actually persuading him to shut up, and carefully removed the thick wads of cotton from his ears. "Make sure your remote has a mute feature for that one! Also back with us, the most disturbing thing I've seen since someone thought Hasselhoff's judgment skills rated high enough to host anything, the master of self-immolation, Mungus Mumfrey the Finnish fungus!"

Shifting, bouncing masses of whitish cells piled up into an armlike appendage which waved at the camera. Gonzo shook his head, drawing McGurk closer. "He's good, but I still think we're better! After all, when he catches fire, he puts it out!" Gonzo told his assistant smugly. McGurk thought of his bet with the other monsters, and sighed. He'd actually started to enjoy the company of the odd little curly-nosed thing…

"The rambunctious rodent who…who…" Snookie paused, frowning. "Actually, we have yet to see what Montrose the Mouse actually does…"

"Watch it, bigears!" a voice squeaked, though the camera was having difficulty pinpointing it. "You just wait! My act will tear 'em all up!"

"Sure it will," Snookie responded, his smile registering a ten on the insincerity scale. "And wrapping things up, we'll see the legendary street fighter—"

"Yo. That's sheepfighter, short, yellow and plaid-tastic," rumbled a deep voice; Gonzo looked around to see a large-horned ram with pierced ears and gang symbols carved into his charcoal-hued wool.

"Lamb!" Snookie said, a little awed despite himself. This guy was indeed a legend, a blast from the past; he recalled seeing sheepsploitation films in Times Square theatres years ago, and this ram had been in quite a few. "Well! John Lamb!"

"Man, that Lamb is one baaaaa…" began B.D., also impressed at having a celebrity on the show.

"Shut your mouth!" Hem growled.

A wet, shivering Shakey offered tentatively, "H-he's just talking about Lamb…"

"We most certainly can dig it," Snookie chimed in, and the crowd cheered as the ram flexed his considerable hooves for their admiration. "Okay! Well everyone, tonight it is on! no matter how much we wish we could turn it off. Now, time to say hi to our judges…"

"Whaaaat abouuuuut meeee?" asked a snail as it began the slow trek across the stage.

Snookie gave it a dubious look; the snail sported a gunbelt with two six-shooters and a two-gallon hat perched behind its eyestalks. "Uh, and you are?"

"Wyyyyyatt Sluuurrrp, the wooooorrld's faaaastest snaaaiil, maaaster of the quiick draaaww," the snail replied. "Iiiis thiiis where I auditiooon foooor Breaaaak aaa Leeeeg?"

Snookie shook his head. "The auditions were over a week ago!"

"Awwww, nuuuts," Wyatt muttered. "Aaaand I leeeeft the hooouuse eeaarly, toooo!"

Snookie tossed an incredulous look at the judges, then at Pew, but the director was busy ranting at the folding chair which according to him had failed to put two creams in his coffee. B.D. and Hem looked at one another, ignoring Shakey until the tiny red creature spoke up: "C-can you actually sh-shoot those things?" Interested, the other monsters stared at the snail.

Wyatt wiggled his eyestalks, paused, then suddenly a blur of movement swirled around his shell, which seemed to remain stationary. Snookie flinched as the shot pinged and panged off the trusses overhead, bringing down a shower of sparks along with one of the smaller lights; a second and third shot bounced the light midair over the judges' table and then flipped it to land precisely at Snookie's feet. He took a shaky step away from the smoking, dented instrument. When he stared at the snail, the creature seemed not to have budged an inch. It blinked slowly at him, blew the haze of black powder away from the muzzle of the gun, and took another full minute to reholster the weapon.

"Sure, why not?" Hem said, and the audience muttered and clapped.

B.D. shrugged. One of the stagehand monsters guided the snail offstage, and Snookie tried to resume his intro. "Well, looks like a late entry will be accepted, frog help him… Your judges, whom we just can't get enough of or away from, are the usual offenders: the irascible Beautiful Day!" B.D. grunted, picking his teeth, frowning at the glob of green sludge on the end of his toothpick. Snookie didn't comment; didn't want to know… "The gourmet of limited taste and unlimited appetite, Behemoth!" Hem paused in the act of slathering mint jelly on Shakey to wave and grin. "And, briefly, Shakey San—oh, never mind, he's gone. We'll also pretend to enjoy a musical performance by the Good Clean Kids! Now have your phones standing by, and remember, the fees associated with every call-in vote will go directly to the charity supporting a goop kitchen for homeless monsters! One living creature will feed a monster for every ten dollars in call-ins, so keep tapping that 'call' key as though anyone really cares which of these numbskulls you prefer!" Snookie paused for a breath, never letting up on his wide smile. "We'll be right back after these messages from our sponsors! Run now while you still can! It's voter night, right here on Break a Leg!"

***

"So, uh, ladies! How nice you're all looking toni—oh hey, popcorn!" Rizzo exclaimed as though he'd only just noticed the bags and bowls of freshly-popped, fake-butter-saturated stuff.

Camilla gave him the evil eye, and Rizzo's friendly smile faltered a bit. "Uh…c'mon, you girls ain't gonna eat all dat, are ya? C'mon, give a starving rat a break!" he begged, and the chicken relented.

"Bawwwk buh-buh-bok bok," she ordered him, and Rizzo shrugged.

"Yeah, sure, I'll vote for the fearless freak…hey, wait! Vote for him for what?"

"Popcorns! Why did jou not tell me there was popcorns?" Pepe demanded.

"It ain't mine, kelpbreath! Da girls have alla it, but maybe if ya ask nice, they'll let ya have a bite," Rizzo shot back, then started snickering. "Popcorn shrimp…"

"Who is jou calling shrimp?!"

Camilla's stern cluck silenced them both, and both glared at one another but then gave the chicken grudging nods and settled in among the plump feathery showgirls all staring at the television. "So what is this, movie nights?" Pepe asked. Velma the chicken shushed him, and he mumbled an annoyed apology: "Sorry, okay? Jou could clue a guy in once in a whiles, though."

"Eh, it's somethin' about Gonzo," Rizzo said, but just then, the commercial for Joe Ho's Gerbil Hoagie House ended and a yellow-felted Muppet in a brown plaid sports coat filled the screen with his grin, making the rat, the prawn, and a few of the chickens cringe away in surprise.

"Welcome back to Break a Leg! Up first tonight, the mistress of the mystic, the woman who makes beds of nails look comfy, the seductive and seditious Jasmine Fatwah!" the host barked at the camera.

"I would not ever have guessed dat someone else could wear da Newsgeek's coat even worse dan he does!" Rizzo said, and Pepe nodded emphatically.

"For seriously, okay! What the holy camerones is this show?" But then, as the lights onstage dimmed and two followspots centered upon a vision in Middle Eastern veils, both boys' jaws dropped. "Ai hot mama!"

"You said it!" Rizzo murmured, all petty disagreements abandoned. Camilla sighed, claws tapping. When would they get past these other amateurs so she could see her daring Whatever? On the screen, Jasmine Fatwah began an intricate dance using an enormous scimitar as a partner, whirling with it, rising on tiptoe so gracefully and leaping so airily she seemed more a sylph of the smoke than any earthbound creature. As the sweet tune lent itself to romantic, dangerous whirls of the sword all around her barely-covered, lithe form, the performer began to sing, her voice throaty and smokily seductive.

"Pachalafaka, pachalafaka…they whisper it all over Turkey; pachalafaka, pachalafaka…it sounds so romantic and quirky…" Fatwah threw the sword in the air, suddenly fell in a back-bending dip so that the falling blade thunked into the stage directly between her legs and in the next instant she whipped her entire body forward to yank it free and twirl it before sending it skyward again. "Oh, I know that phrase will make me thrill always, for it reminds me of you, my sweet! Just the mention of, that tender word of love…" The sword chunked into the stage again, vibrating, as Fatwah paused, her garments swirling gently around her, to pat her barely-hidden bosom. "Gives my heart a jerkish, Turkish beat!"

"Holy cow!" Rizzo gasped, clutching at his own chest.

"Jou said it, amigo!" Pepe breathed.

Camilla rolled her eyes, annoyed; this contestant wasn't really all that impressive. It's all about made-up eyes and a fluttery outfit, and they all fall down drooling, she thought, disgusted. Hope the judges can see past their hormones and save their praise for some genuine talent! All the same, she worried; the audience both here in the green room and there at the TV studio was loudly cheering, and she knew how competitive Gonzo would be if he thought someone else was being unfairly favored. What could he do to follow on the heels of the Triple Lindy Sushi Roll? Won't he go MORE dangerous? But what could be more…oh no! Not the cannons! She drew down into her feathers, realizing that would be extremely likely, not happy in the least. The cannon act had never gone off without a hitch! But if she knew Gonzo, something involving large muzzles and explosives was almost certainly on the menu tonight…

Deeply worried, Camilla set down her bowl of popcorn and tried to keep her wings from trembling. She noticed Velma and Cherie giving her sympathetic glances, and tried to hold her head up while the exotic dancer on the screen continued to prance around with that ridiculously symbolic blade. Tawdry, she thought with a cluck. Rizzo and Pepe, however, saw a number flashed on the screen to vote for the dancer, and pulled out their cell phones, and only an angry bawk from Camilla reminded them why they'd been allowed a share of the popcorn in the first place. Both at least had the grace to look sheepish, but Camilla felt even more alone; these two were so easily bought, and the other birds were only here because Piggy had told them to sit with Camilla.

The chicken sighed. Was she the only one here who hadn't forgotten Gonzo?

***

Rosie McGurk completely forgot his assigned daredevil when Fatwah danced closer to the back of the stage, wiggling the flat side of the sword down her entire body with a concerted shimmy as she bent over in a half-circle, still throatily singing: "Pachalafaka, pachalafaka, takes me back with you to passionate desert scenes…and it's here to stay til the very day, we find out what pachalafaka means…we find out…"

"Blagga mah!" McGurk cried, enraptured, leaping onstage, ignoring the protests of Gonzo and the nearest stagemonsters. The pinkish monster, all three eyes full of that enchanting mirage in flimsiest gauze, threw out his arms to catch the dancer as she fell backwards, tossing her sword in the air one last time. The monster seized her and planted a long, deep smack on her mouth, tearing off her veil, overjoyed to discover the long furry whiskers and horsey teeth it had hidden; Fatwah squealed, struggling, a second before the sword thunked right through the top of McGurk's head. Dazed, he dropped her, and with a gibbering snarl, she, he, or it scuttled offstage and out the back door, shoving aside the startled guards.

"Well! That was…different," Snookie offered, trying to recover his composure. Behind him, two stagemonsters strained to pull the sword out of McGurk, who was trying his best to chase after his newfound crush despite being pinned to the stage. "Let's go to our panel! B.D?"

"Eh, clearly that sword wasn't sharp enough; the stupid critter's still alive," the blue cynic grunted. "Kind of a letdown, really."

"Shakey?"

"Was th-that monster p-part of the act or not?" the tiny monster asked, prying open Hem's jaws long enough to peer out at the still-stuck, still-whining McGurk. "I'm all for bigger m-monsters being skewered for a change!"

"Shut up!" Hem growled, stuffing Shakey back down his throat and stifling a belch. "I dunno, I kinda liked the gender ambiguity! I vote claws up, and here's the extension to my dressing room…"

"Oh-kay!" Snookie said hurriedly, hoping the feed would focus on him instead of the number Hem was trying to wave at the camera. "Well, if the contestant doesn't return to the stage within ten seconds, he or she will be disqualified no matter what anyone thinks of dances-with-swords! Up next…Mungus Mumfrey! We'll be right back." He shook his head, astounded at the persistence with which McGurk still struggled, and hissed at the monster in passing, "Let me guess, didn't hurt a bit? Get off the stage, will you!" He strode off to grab a gulp from his water bottle, grimacing at the taste; he tried hard not to think about rumors he'd heard about graywater. A grunt and a yelp from the stage informed him they'd finally unstuck McGurk. Sighing, he straightened his tie, smoothed down his coat hem and his sleek hair, and bounded back into the spotlight as the music blared.

"All right! Time for the fungus a-Mungus, heh heh…hello Mungus! And what amazing stunt will you be performing for us tonight?" He kept grinning despite the musty smell wafting up at him from the shifting, slithering thing undulating across the stage. He really hoped this thing didn't lose, as it was a sure bet Carl would want to do something culinary with the remains, and Snookie was deeply allergic to mushrooms…

The fungus made no sound at all, but formed part of itself into a rude gesture, and Snookie backed off. "Uh, right back at ya, buddy! Hope the two-second delay caught that…at any rate…our next contestant, folks!" He gladly retreated to the side as the house band of purple monsters in color-coordinated suits and berets launched into a Parisian jazz number.

In the audience, the befuddled visitor gently nudged his reptilian friend. "Uh, Deadly…what is this performer?"

"It appears to be a sentient fungus," Deadly mused, staring curiously at the writhing, globby mass.

"Okay…and what's it doing?"

"The backstroke! Ho ho, no, I'm only joshing you," Deadly snickered, then peered up at the stage. "Actually, I believe that's the samba." A loud whoosh and the feel of heat overhead made the shaded man flinch, and Deadly added thoughtfully, "With flamethrowers."

"I can't believe you did that!" Gonzo berated McGurk as the dazed monster sat down on a crate of TNT next to him, still woozy, still sporting a long blade between his feathery ears. "Did it even occur to you how up a creek I'd be if you came down with tetanus? Sheesh!"

"Fugabba," McGurk sighed. Something itched; he reached up a paw to scratch his head, but a very irritated Gonzo smacked him.

"Don't scratch it, it'll never heal!" Gonzo scolded. "Now come on, I think we're up next! Help me load the explosives into the pans. And where'd you put the fuses?"

The next few minutes proved to be doubly frantic when McGurk was forced to dash between the cannons and the pile of supplies for the act; he kept forgetting to pick something up, or put something down, or…did he load three charges or six into that gun? Irritated, he finally managed to scratch loose the blade protruding from his furry skull, and felt much better after that, but then he couldn't recall what order the flaming hoops went in…

Scattered, bewildered applause accompanied the smoldering fungus offstage. Countie leaned toward Uncle Deadly, a little unnerved at the strange caws, growls, and grunts he could hear all around. "Uh, Deadly? Is the next act some sort of wild animal tamer?"

The dragon peered up at the giant screen behind the stage area. "Hm. Rather hard to tell, but I don't recall hearing any mention of vicious trained creatures. We are going to drop in on my theatre tomorrow night, though, where I assure you more than a few bears, pigs, and chickens make a rather sad attempt at show business…"

Countie grinned, knowing full well what theatre the ghostly monster referred to. "Oh, good!" he murmured, unconsciously sounding a great deal like another denizen of that performing-animal troupe. He sniffed, and frowned. "Deadly, please tell me there isn't a moldy sheepdog next to me…I keep smelling dirty, wet fur."

The judges bickered about whether using four flamethrowers during a jazz samba really qualified as a new act, since the fungus had previously juggled flamethrowers in his last appearance, but grudgingly decided claws-up with a warning for the sludge to present something more original next time. A stagemonster waved at Gonzo, and the breathless daredevil, bouncing in place, tried a few shadow punches to warm up. "Brahabba ugg," McGurk remembered to wish him.

"Thanks! Come on, let's get the cannons up there! And bring the hoops!" Anxiously, Gonzo darted everywhere at once until both cannons were placed at opposite ends of the stage, with McGurk stationed in between, a pile of gel-coated wire hoops on poles and the ends to the chain-fuses all at his pawtips. He looked confusedly from one cannon to the other, not sure if he'd knotted the timed fuses correctly; was it, the monster goes around the tree three times, then down the trapdoor to be eaten by the rabbit, or four times? He tried to get Gonzo's attention, but Snookie was already grabbing the foolhardy star by the shoulder to drag him into the spotlight.

"And now, for all you fans of the foolish and devotees of the death-defying, up next is the Muppet voted Most Likely to Become a Wall Hanging, the Great Gonzo!"

"Hello, all you danger fans!" Gonzo crowed, and the monster audience cheered.

"I'll try to describe it for you," Deadly said hesitantly, but his companion shook his head.

"It's okay…I think the screams and explosions will give me the general picture."

"Er…he's using cannons. And there appears to be a flaming hoop between them."

"Cannons, hoop, flames," Countie said, "Got it."

In the green room below the mainstage at the Muppet Theatre, Camilla wrung her wings and watched in a mix of excitement, terror, and morbid fascination as Gonzo stripped off his boxer's robe, revealing the shimmery green-sequined leotard underneath. He fastened a matching latex cap tightly on his head, looking more like a Ziegfeld Follies swimmer than someone about to be shot out of a cannon, and threw his arms in the air. "Greetings, mere mortals! I, the Great Gonzo, will now attempt no less than six passes through ever-diminishing flaming hoops, my feet never touching the ground once I am shot from this first cannon, to the tune of Mozart's overture to the 'Marriage of Figaro'! Maestro, if you please!"

Camilla felt the floor wobbling up at her, and reached out to lean on anything which might keep her upright. Unfortunately this proved to be the rat and the shrimp, who both squirmed and grumbled until she whacked them once with her wings. They fell silent, despite throbbing skulls, and the worried chicken stared at the TV. Gonzo climbed into the ten-pounder gun (Camilla had learned artillery designations the hard way, and thereafter had declined all offers to allow her to be the one shot out), waving at everyone with a mad grin, then wriggled himself down. "Ungh…ergh…this really…would've been easier…if you'd greased the insides…" he muttered at McGurk.

"Labba frow?" McGurk asked, perking, and lit the first fuse off the already-flaming hoop dead center stage.

"Okay…now wait a sec 'til I…" Gonzo heard the hissing sound, and looked down to see the spark swiftly traveling along the fuse. The Mutations and a few additional musicians on violin and cello were already two bars into the overture; the first blast was supposed to be timed exactly, but – "Wait! I'm stuck!" Gonzo yelled.

BOOM!

Camilla clucked in terror, desperately wanting to shield her eyes but compelled to stare as Gonzo flew end-over-end gracelessly, barely clearing the sides of the hoop, landing at a bad angle in the second cannon so his arms were pinned. Frantically the daredevil tried to turn himself around in the barrel, but this one, though slightly larger, proved just as tough to maneuver in without lubrication; he felt sequins tearing. The crowd hooted, cheered, booed, and thumped on the seatbacks of the monsters in front of them. McGurk grabbed the next hoop on the pile, lighting it off the first one just as that sputtered out; neon green sparks showered down on the startled monster as he yanked the old hoop out of its stand and plunked the new one in. The fuse on the second cannon touched the powder-pan a split second before Gonzo expected it.

Camilla flinched; she knew that yodeling shriek as Gonzo somersaulted back across the stage through the second hoop meant things were not going as he'd planned them. To everyone else, it might appear no different than most of the stunts he'd attempted, but there was a slight change of octave her sensitive chicken aural organs could detect in Gonzo's scream. "Bukawwwwk," she moaned, squeezing the creatures on either side of her tighter in her concern.

"Ack! Ugh…can…can ya let go of my throat, please?" Rizzo choked out.

"Sí, sí, breathing is good, okay?" Pepe agreed. Camilla released them both, but then the first cannon went off again before Gonzo had barely thunked into its smoking barrel, sending him rocketing right at a very startled McGurk only just lifting the next hoop into place. Camilla clucked loudly in horror, reactively beating her strong wings, smacking the two diminutive Muppets.

"Agghh…" groaned Rizzo, sinking into a heap.

"Someone get the license number…" Pepe muttered before flopping facefirst onto the floor.

"Waaaaaaaggghhh!" Gonzo shrieked, plowing nose-first into the hoop. It knocked the still-flaming one, then toppled onto the pile of the kerosene-gel-coated props.

Then things became interesting.

Snookie cringed behind a lighting truss pole, watching in shock as the entire pile exploded in a rainbow-hued fireball, colors shifting prettily; Gonzo shot straight up, his leotard sparking crazily as chemicals intermixed; the cannons, multiple fuses overloading as explosive trays dumped into their powder-pans out of synch, boomed deafeningly and dragged trenches in the stage floor as they recoiled off stage left and right, respectively, taking out two of the cameras. McGurk was beaned by a flaming, flying hoop-stand and went down, his fur smoking blue. The judges stared in awe as a whooping Gonzo sailed over the main lighting truss, smacked hard into the giant plasma screen, and fell almost delicately toward the stage…as the screen toppled. The whole thing felt surreal and slow-mo to Snookie, but he was out of immediate danger; the judges realized at the last second the screen would flatten their table and scrambled out of the way. Hem and B.D. wound up clinging to a support post, panting, but the tiny red-collared monster Hem spat out as he ran proved less fleet of foot; Shakey regained his balance just in time to look up and see fate bearing down on him. He didn't get the chance to even blink.

The cannons, at last out of powder, lay wrecked and slowly melting holes in the concrete floor past the stage platform. The screen sparked twice, then went completely dead. The band, oblivious, played through to the last note of the sprightly overture, and in that final silence, the audience began to murmur. Smoke sifted gently over the remains of the stage. A hooded figure in a long dark cloak slowly rose from a front-row seat and approached the platform. Snookie, spotting it, gulped and ducked behind the post.

"Tah-dahhh!" Gonzo cried, popping up from a broken section of the huge screen covering half the stage. His eyes were dazed, his cap hanging off his chinstrap, parts of his spangly green outfit were torn, parts were in tatters, and parts were fused to his fur, but triumphant he stood, arms wide, grinning.

The hooded figure shook its head and returned to its seat.

Snookie looked at the judges; they seemed equally stunned. Shaking, he tiptoed out, smoothing down his hair. He spotted a camera still frackled, and addressed it: "Oh-kay! And there you have it, folks – the Great Gonzo, still with us!" Gonzo, glowing with triumph and five of the six ingredients for Chinese fireworks, gently fainted. "Uh…maybe. Remember, you can vote now or after the show! Every call is more money in the producers' pockets, so vote and keep voting until your grubby little fingers lock in place on your smartphones! We'll take a short break here, and if we come back, music from the Good Clean Kids!" The feed cut off, and Snookie blew out a breath, amazed at the extent of the damage.

"Caffeh! Whair is mah caffeh!" Pew shouted, waving his empty mug until he whacked it backward into the face of the goblin trying to bring him a Thermos. The goblin collapsed, and Pew stomped off, complaining about the undependable p.a.'s around here.

"That sounded bad," Countie commented.

Deadly shrugged. "He has actually done worse. Shall we go get some snacks? I believe I saw a gyro stand in the concession level…"

"Do I want to know what they stuff gyros with here?"

"Now, now, it's New York! While you're here, you should experience all the big undercity has to offer!" Deadly chided, leading his companion out toward the vendors.

"I don't know if my booster shots are current enough for that," Countie muttered as he allowed the dragon to guide him out.

Camilla looked up from her shivering feathers long enough to see Gonzo emerge from the wreckage, then she sank down once more, relieved but exhausted, wishing she could contact him somehow, could tell him to stop this insanity and come home! At the moment, she wasn't thinking about eggs, or nesting, or all she'd discussed with Piggy about the stagnant relationship…all she wanted was her Whatever, home safe. Relatively safe, at least. This nonsense went well past what Kermit would have allowed! "Buh-baaaawwwk," she moaned, and Velma patted her back awkwardly, trying to offer comfort. Camilla sniffled, then burst into poultry-sobs: "Buh-buh-buh-baww-awww-awwwwwk!"

Immediately the other chickens crowded around, clucking softly. Pepe shook the feathers off, dragging himself mostly upright a few inches away, and saw the number being flashed on the screen for Gonzo before the station went to commercial. "Ai, are we supposed to vote for him now?" he wondered.

Rizzo shook himself violently all over, puffing at his whiskers to dislodge a bit of chickenfluff from them. "Ugh! I nevah, evah, want to be dat close to anything with pinfeathers again!" Pepe's query filtered into his brain, and he glared at the shrimp. "Are you kiddin'? After dat whack, she can dial her own danged phone! –and you can keep your yucky popcorn, I didn't want it anyway!" he shouted at the chickens, and stomped off.

Pepe hesitated. "Ah…if I don't vote for anybodys, can I still have the popcorns already?"

A flurry of batting wings and angry clucks sent him scurrying after the rat.

Staggering back from the monster aid table backstage, McGurk overheard a two-headed monster with pink fur and small horns talking to a grumpy-looking orange spider with pens in four of its clawtips. "Ruh…rubbah gubba buh," the first head said, and the spider scratched a mark on one piece of paper. The second head mumbled something into the Gruetooth headset it wore, then told the spider, "Uffa muh!"

The spider nodded and marked another paper. Meanwhile the first head of the double-header was talking on its own Gruetooth, and presently reported to the spider: "Rubba ooba!"

The spider marked a third paper. McGurk asked cautiously, "Bagga gazza muh?"

"He's leading by twenty-four," the spider whispered.

"Uffa," the second head said, and the spider scratched another mark.

"Twenty-five," the spider told McGurk. "Now go away. I must concentrate."

The double-header continued to take calls and report the results to the spider, those busy arms scribbling tallies, and McGurk hurried back to Gonzo, excited. He jogged the Whatever's arm to get his attention.

"Ow," said Gonzo, peering out from beneath the heavy compress on his eyelids. "Rosie! What did I tell you about getting the timing fuses in sequence!"

"Nabba muh tubba," McGurk argued, pointing happily at the tally table several yards away, where the monster and spider continued their business unaffected by the Frackles and other monsters scurrying, hurrying, and sloshing over the stage in an attempt to get it at least partially usable again for the remainder of the live show.

Gonzo stared at him, slowly understanding. "Wait…what do you mean I'm ahead?"

"Farabba! Twabba-fabba!"

"You mean people are calling in?" Gonzo asked, joy suddenly reignited in his heart. "People are voting for me?"

"Habba habba!" McGurk cheered, jumping up and down. His top eyeball, already damaged from the earlier sword-thunk, popped loose. Dismayed, he blinked down at it, then with a grumble bent to pick it up.

"This is fantastic!" Gonzo yelled, leaping to his feet and grabbing his assistant by the shoulders, all disappointments forgiven. "We're a hit!"

"Raffa!" McGurk agreed. While Gonzo raved about kumquats and porcupines and singing cacti, already swamped with ideas for his next act, McGurk licked his loose eyeball and stuck it back into its socket, and decided then and there to tell the boys he was changing his bet. No longer would he bet that Gonzo would die by fire! No sirree…why, he was going to break that pool wide open and bet that the crazy Muppet who'd just survived this stunt would actually make it all the way to the end of the competition! Proud of his association with the Whatever, McGurk smiled and nodded and patted the little blue smoldering shoulder encouragingly. From now on, he'd really pay attention, and he wouldn't let beautiful hairy-lipped temptresses in headscarves distract him, and he…why, they, together, would be a team!

At the tally table, the spider threw a five-eyed annoyed glare at the doglizard sidling over to interrupt. Three eyes remained focused on the papers spread over the table while the double-header continued to growl out the phone-in results so far. "I'm busy," the spider said in its papery voice.

"Jusssst to remind you not to take the votesss too ssseriousssly," Eustace spoke low, glancing over to make sure the two-headed monster didn't overhear, but that dunce was too engrossed in his spiffy cellular tech to notice. "Remember, hisss ultimate darknessss requiresss the winner to be that bizarre sssscrawny thing!"

Annoyed, the spider used one free leg to gesture over at an excitedly pacing Gonzo. "So tell him! Otherwise he may immolate himself before the show even has a next episode!"

Eustace bit back a tart reply. Unfortunately, the spider was probably right. He frowned. Perhaps he ought to have a little chat with that idiot McSquirt, or whatever his name was. Eustace sighed through clenched fangs. That monster's brother was an exemplary employee; who had assigned this loser to such an important task, anyway? Yes, Eustace decided, watching Gonzo trying to describe something to his monster guardian with waving hands and wide eyes: a chat was assuredly a good idea. A nice, friendly chat to remind that three-eyed moron where his loyalty ought to lay whimpering like a frightened chihuahua… Hungry suddenly, Eustace recalled seeing a hot dog stand among the vendors, and slunk off to find something grilled with its fur still on.

Snookie stepped aside at the front edge of the stage, barely cleared of debris, to introduce the musical interlude of the evening: "While our crew tries to make sense out of the senseless slaughter, here they are, the pop sensations who say their greatest ambition is to record a single with Bustin Jeeber and then devour him piece by piece – the Good Clean Kids!"

Amid wild cheering and not a few swoons among the pre-teen monsters in the audience, three small children bounded out front, waving, dressed in identical green jackets and with felt in hues of seafoam, aqua, and cyan. The two girls had sparkly barrettes in their curly brown hair, and the boy sported a cute yellow painter's cap. Together they sang, as the house band struck up '60s-era electric organ chords:

"Hello world, here's some food that we're makin' – c'mon get hungryyy!  
A whole lotta Muppets is what we'll be bakin' – c'mon get hungryyy!"

With their mouths opened wide, their huge white teeth gleamed in the stagelights. Monster girls shrieked. Monster parents rolled their eyes and shook tolerant heads; after all, at least this group was known for their wholesome family values…

"We had a need, to be fillin' up our bellies, and spread a little butter on each critter we catch!" the viciously cute little monster boy sang, the girls harmonizing. "Comfort food is always Muppet butter-and-jelly –"

All three sang joyfully, arms outstretched to their fans, "We love Muppet cookies and we'll bring you a batch!"

Snookie, shaking, decided the show could go hostless for a little while. After all, the stage wasn't fixed enough yet for the next contestant… With a quick look around, he ducked below the damaged platform and crawled on hands and knees toward the back door, but it would be a long time before the joyous ending chorus stopped echoing in his head, buoyed by the audience singing along:

"We'll make you hungry!  
We'll make you hungryyy!  
We'll make you hungryyyyy!"


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN. _In which a family does not see eye to eye; a phone call proves disturbing; and the news is censored._

The lobby of Blucher Memorial seemed drowsy, even the nurses and techs ambling through the halls moving at a just-woken-from-a-nap pace. The Newsman, by contrast, couldn't keep still as he waited for the elevator. He glanced over at the large bronze of a woman posed with a fiddle upraised on her arm, her aged face frozen in a disturbing sort of smile as she forever paused in the middle of a song, a cigar clamped between her teeth. Shivering, Newsie shifted from foot to foot, holding tight to the enormous arrangement of fall mums, red daisies, and asters he'd picked up at the florist on the way here. His aunt had always been fond of her flower gardens, both the tiny one at the house she and Joe had shared in Jersey and the more rambling one up at the lake house. He wondered what that must look like now; he doubted anyone had tended to it for a long while.

He continued to fuss with his tie and cuffs and glasses, and to adjust his hold on the flowers, all the way up to Ethel's room. Fortunately he hadn't encountered that skeptical nurse again, and after he'd signed in at the front desk nobody had paid him any attention. However, when he reached the correct room, he was flabbergasted to find absolutely no one standing guard! Voices from within the room at once drew his ire, and he jerked the door open and strode angrily in. A man with gray and receding hair stopped midsentence to glare at the Newsman; the woman wrapped in furs and holding a stylish pocketbook on her lap also stared at Newsie in surprise a moment before she said, "Oh! It's…isn't it…Aloysius?"

It took him a moment to recall their names. "Er…Mary? Fred?" It had been over a decade since he'd seen either of Uncle Joe's grandchildren. Last he'd heard, both of Joe's sons by his first wife were deceased; he'd been much older than Ethel. Newsie had rarely been in contact with any of this branch of the extended family, having only run into them a few times during those lakehouse summers and the occasional Christmas dinner. Startled but pleased to see them checking on Ethel, Newsie carefully set down the flowers on a table where Ethel would be able to see them, and offered a fuzzy hand to Mary, who smiled wanly at him. "It's…it's so good to see you! It's been…ah…since, um, 1994, wasn't it? Ethel's birthday?" Newsie asked.

"Good memory," Mary agreed. Newsie turned to Fred, but the man scowled, ignoring the outstretched hand.

"I didn't realize you were in town," Newsie said, trying to regain some composure despite the snub. "Did the hospital call you? I…I should've notified you, I guess…"

"Doesn't matter," Fred snorted. "I'm her executor. They'd have called me soon at any rate."

"Fred," Mary scolded gently. To Newsie she explained, "We dropped by the nursing home for a visit, and they told us –"

"Nursing home!" Fred snorted again. "Loony bin, you mean."

"She's not crazy," Newsie argued. "She's just…er…old. Dementia of some form isn't uncommon at her age."

Fred made no reply, standing apart from everyone and glaring at the still, frail Muppet woman in what seemed a sea of bedsheets and blankets, her tiny form almost hidden among them, the oxygen tubing down her throat hissing in measured pulses softly the only indication she was still alive. Newsie came closer, gazing at her shriveled face, remembering instead a handsome woman with bright eyes and a ready smile. This hardly seemed the same person… "How…how is she?"

"Really?" Fred snapped. Newsie started back at the venom in that voice, then glowered at his step-cousin.

"Those are lovely flowers," Mary said. "I'm sure she'll like them."

"Will you stop acting like she's going to wake up and everything'll be better!" Fred burst out.

"She might," Newsie said hotly. "The doctor said she might! And – and – she wouldn't want her family to be at odds!" He swallowed hard, and tried a more neutral tone: "Look, I know we were never close, but she's my aunt and your grandmother –"

"She's my dead grandfather's widow," Fred snapped. "She made me her executor, lord knows why since it was always obvious she favored you Muppets more than her husband's blood descendants! I'm just waiting for this to be over with so we can figure out what to do with the property! Don't you worry, I'm sure she left you something. I'll let you know at the reading of the will, okay?" Shocked at this antagonism, Newsie opened his mouth to protest, and Fred bent over to deliver one more piece of poison face to face: "You and I are not family, you – you – fuzzy yellow dwarf! And this whole business has dragged on long enough! I wish she'd just –" He abruptly shut up, threw another glare at the sickbed, turned on his heel so sharply his designer loafer squeaked on the linoleum and left the room.

Stunned, outraged, Newsie stood there, wanting to yell back a retort but remembering his poor aunt was right there. One of them had to act like a grown-up, for the sake of this woman who'd wanted only harmony among all her relations!

Mary swore very softly, then stood and touched a hand to Newsie's shoulder. "I'm really, really sorry. He's…this whole thing has been really hard on him. I don't know why he's saying these awful things; he always loved Grandma Ethel!" She looked at the half-open door, fuming at her brother. "Just ignore him, okay? He's not thinking clearly. We just…haven't known what to do with Ethel, since she…since she started losing her grip on things. It's hard, to see someone you've loved just go downhill like that."

Newsie nodded, staying silent, still feeling slapped. Mary rubbed his shoulder lightly, then sighed. "I should go catch up with him before he tries to drive in that mood. It honestly is nice to see you again, Aloysius. You, uh…you take some time with your aunt, okay? Maybe she does know we're here."

"I hope not," Newsie muttered, casting a dark look at the door.

"He didn't mean it," Mary said. "He's just really angry at all of this. I should go."

Newsie nodded, and clasped her hand one more time before she left. Once she'd gone, he stood looking into the hospital bed a long while, seeing no change on Ethel's face, no indication she'd heard any of the altercation. Just as well, he thought gloomily. The lack of a guard returned to his awareness, and in growing unease he checked under the bed, in the wardrobe, and every corner of the room, but found no sign of the yipping monsters, or of any other untoward creature. He was sitting on an uncomfortable chair when a nurse came in; Newsie looked up worriedly, but it wasn't the one who'd threatened to throw him out last time. "Just checking vitals," the nurse murmured at him. Newsie nodded, relaxing slightly.

After a minute of watching the nurse log readings from various displays over and around the bed, Newsie asked quietly, "Do you think she's going to wake up?"

The nurse gave him a sympathetic smile. "Hon, you know, I have seen miracles around here, once in a blue moon…but in her case I don't think it's likely. If she's not breathing on her own by next Wednesday…" She shrugged.

"What…what do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I assumed you were her nephew," the nurse said, then gently began to explain, "She has a limitation order for artificial methods of life-prolongation we didn't know about until her step-grandson informed us of her living will. If we'd known about that she wouldn't even be here now, hon. I'm so sorry."

"I am her nephew!" Newsie said, hopping down from the chair to confer more closely with the nurse. She pointed out the neon-green piece of paper taped above the bed which spelled out his aunt's wish not to continue life hooked up to a machine. "When – when did she order that?"

Sighing, the nurse checked the file clipped to the bed. "Says here she signed the directive years ago; a Fred Muppman witnessed it. We told her nephew about it as soon as we were informed –"

"But I'm her nephew!" Newsie insisted again, then realized he wasn't the only one. "Er…do you mean Chester Blyer?"

"No, no Blyer listed…this says we told an Aloysius Crimp. I'm really sorry nobody contacted you about it…would you like us to add you to the contact list as well, Mr…?"

Shaken, Newsie gulped out, "But –but I am Aloysius Crimp!" What the hey was going on here? This is starting to feel like an Abbot and Costello routine! If one of the yip-yips had popped up and chimed in, "Third base!" he wouldn't have been at all surprised. "Nobody called me! What the hey – that's the second time someone said they called me and nobody did! What number are you people calling?" Could there possibly be two people with the same archaic name in this city?

"You're…" the nurse stared at him uncertainly.

"Let me see that," Newsie demanded, reaching for his aunt's chart. The nurse jerked it up out of his grasp.

"Only immediate family are –"

"D—it, I am her closest family!" Newsie shouted, then wrested his anger under control again. Fuming, he dug out all his ID to show the unhappy nurse. When she was at last persuaded of his familial relation and birth-name, she allowed him to copy down in his reporter's notepad the phone number the hospital believed to be his, and for good measure he wrote down for her his home phone, cell phone, and the main number at KRAK. "These are the numbers you should call if anything happens! Not that one! I never gave you that one and I don't even know who that is!" he growled.

The nurse shrugged. "Fine, I'll pass it along to records. I'm sorry about the mixup, Mr Crimp. And I'm sorry about your aunt." With a frown, she left the room.

Newsie stared at the number he'd copied down. They've been calling some total stranger? But...but who would say they were me? Who wouldn't correct their mistake, instead of being given reports of…of… Chilled, he raised his eyes to his aunt, still motionless, the machine breathing for her as she slept, and slept, and slept. He couldn't take his eyes off her, fear sinking into his stomach. His fingers fumbled through his coat pockets until he found his cell phone, silently thanking his beloved yet again for making sure he took it with him this morning. Slowly he dialed the unknown number, put the phone to his ear with a trembling hand, and listened.

After three rings, the line clicked. A scratchy voice said, "Main office. What extension?"

Newsie paused, then tried to clear his throat, and said hoarsely, "A-aloysius Crimp, please."

"One moment."

Some truly ghastly hold music warbled through the phone, then the line clicked again. The voice which answered was deep, smooth, and somehow very, very cold: "Yes? This is Mr Crimp."

Newsie choked, inhaled, struggled to regain his speech. "You – who are you?"

Silence filled the open line. Then Newsie heard a very, very faint, very deep chuckle, and the line went dead. "Who are you?" he shouted, frantic, even though he'd heard the other person hang up, and now a beeping tone sounded in his ear. Frightened, he hastily punched redial.

After a second, a recorded, snide voice informed him: "The number you have dialed has been disconnected. If you would like to place a call, please hang up and dial again. If you require assistance, please hang up and dial zero…"

Shaking, Newsie closed the phone and tucked it back in his pocket. He stared at his aunt. Silence filled the room, save for the steady hissing of the machine. He looked at the notepad with its simple, local, and now very disturbing number. The fact that it now appeared in his own handwriting on his notepad seemed somehow very wrong. He pulled his phone out once more, and after a moment of racing thought and worried hesitation, called his detective friend. Once again he reached voicemail. Newsie used one of the curse words he'd picked up from Gina, although quietly, and then found the main number of Detective Pendziwater's precinct in his contact list.

"He's on administrative leave," the desk sergeant informed him.

"Admin…what? Why?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, sir. If you'd like another detective to –"

He'd met some of the others once, on a visit to the precinct chasing a story about a rash of burglaries; none of them had seemed friendly. "Er—no. Can I – can I just report a – a case of identity theft?" He had no idea what else to call the troubling thing he'd just discovered.

Some other detective who sounded even more tired and bored than the sergeant took down his information and said they'd look into it. Frustrated, Newsie hung up and paced the room. What can I do? Oh frog, what the hey can I even do, to keep her safe? Once more, he made a circuit of the entire room, checking for anything lurking, but found nothing. Whom could he recruit? Ethel needed a guard now more than ever! Penguins? No, too noisy, they'd be thrown out! The chickens? No…there's probably laws against that in Queens… Sweetums came to mind, but he shuddered. No! A thousand times no! Despite what Gina had told him of her odd but friendly conversation with the troll, he couldn't bring himself to accept the idea of anything even slightly monsterish here…and Sweetums was more than slightly. He shivered hard. No, he needed someone trustworthy, someone who would take this all with the utmost seriousness…

Brightening somewhat, Newsie quickly checked through his contact list, found the number he needed, and hurriedly punched it in.

Thirty minutes later (the eagle was nothing if not prompt and punctual), Sam nodded grimly as the Newsman ran for the elevator before the doors closed. Now there, Sam thought, is a Muppet who understands that time is money…money is the absolute base of our society – why – it's the BASEST base, oh indeed…and the news is…is…the news is very important! Even if I'm not sure how falling sofas actually affect Wall Street. Nodding again sagely, he leaned forward to follow a passing intern with a fierce glare until the spooked doctor-in-training was out of sight. Well! I certainly hope this 'Frau Blucher' doesn't know of the lax security measures at the hospital bearing her… "Why am I hearing horses?" Sam muttered aloud, looking up and down the hallway. When no explanation presented itself, and there was no one around to ask, he shrugged. "Weird." He checked the lock on the doorknob behind him; it remained firmly shut. "Good," he rumbled, satisfied. "Those nurses will just have to prove they're really nurses by using their special hospital key! Hm!"

He straightened his feathers, checking himself once all over just to be certain he was maintaining a proper guard appearance. By gum, they should never have sent a man to do an eagle's work! But no matter. Now I am on the job, and nothing will get past these steely eyes! Nothing, and certainly not one of those long-furred weirdos!

Inside Ethel Muppman's hospital room, a shimmer in the air was followed by the materialization through the tiny window of a pink, many-tentacled thing and its blue twin, goggle-eyes wide, mouths downturned in unhappiness. "Eth-el, yip," the blue thing mumbled.

"Yip yip yip," the pink thing agreed, then put an appendage to its wide mouth. "Shhhh! Qui-et! Mmm! Shhhhhhh!"

"Shhhhhhyipyipyipyipyip!" the blue one echoed, the two of them shushing one another, progressively louder and with many competing yips until both finally subsided. "Shh. Mm."

Slowly they drifted lower, closer to the bed with its unconscious occupant. Wide-eyed, and with only the slightest twitching of their quirked antennae, the monsters studied the frail, pale Muppet woman a long time.

"Eth-el," the pink one muttered.  
"Shhhhhh! Yip," the blue one shushed it, and again they fell to quarreling: "Shh! Yip yip yip yip!" "Qui-et! Yip yip qui-et! Shhhh!" "Yiiiiip yip yip yip yip aaawww…"

The woman in the bed didn't stir, didn't open her eyes, made no acknowledgement of them whatsoever. The creatures, silent finally, stared at her. One turned to the other, and they exchanged a wide, serious look before returning to their study of the woman they were ordered to terminate.

"Mmm," said the blue one, shaking its head.

"Shhh!" said the pink one.

Rhonda had the flashdrive in her paw, tapping her darling little open-toed high-heeled patent-leather boots as she waited for the Newsman to argue his way past security. His scowl didn't change when he spotted her. "What's with all the guardposts?" he demanded, gesturing back at the beefy guard in short sleeves and a tie lounging purposefully at the corner desk to the news studio offices.

Rhonda tossed back her just-highlighted hair, reflexively smoothing out the bangs. "Eh, some kinda new policy the boss put up. Apparently there's been some kinda terrorist threat against local news stations and he's not taking any chances, no matter how much he has to cut our salaries to pay these oafs." She wrinkled her nose. "Frankly, I think it's all bullpuckey." Both of them cast a dark look at the polled Angus guard before Rhonda grabbed Newsie's sleeve and tugged him toward his dressing-room. "Get in here. We gotta go over this report."

"Rhonda, the results on the monster goop came back negative," Newsie muttered at her, obediently trotting in her wake. They wove between a couple of station interns ferrying coffee mugs and one copywriter dashing between meetings before reaching the relative safety of the Newsman's room. "I don't know how, but it didn't register as monsterish! So we'll…we'll have to go back down there and get better –"

"Like holy flamin' Hades we will! Goldie! What is your malfunction about this monster stuff?" Rhonda squeaked angrily.

Newsie flushed, and pointed at the floor. "They are down there, Rhonda! I saw them! I just –" He smacked his palm in frustration against a pile of paper stacked on his desk. "I just can't prove it yet…ow." He tried to shake the sting out of his hand. "What the heck is all that?"

The rat sighed, exasperated. "Remember you asked our loyal viewing public for leads on disappearances around town? That is the email your little request generated, all printed out for your enjoyment, and believe me, you had better be really nice to Elisa at the front desk for a long while for sorting through all of it for you!"

"Leads? We have leads?" Newsie muttered, flipping through the stack. "I'll…I'll start right away! I guess making sure all of them involve disappearances near a sewer or subway entrance is the first step, weed out the crackpots…"

"Do you ever listen to yourself?"

He gave her an uncertain look. "Er…well, I do review my newscasts sometimes, to make sure my presentation skills are compelling enough…"

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Oh my frog, I ask of thee patience." She held out the flashdrive. "Will you please sit down and let's go over this actually newsworthy report? I submitted it to Murray twice already and he kept requesting more edits. This is what I came up with. Rubber-stamp it so we can throw it on tonight, will ya, and then we can move on to the other stories you're gonna cover tonight on your segment?"

"I suppose it ought to be the priority," Newsie grumbled agreement, setting up his laptop. "I just wish it could include a warning about the monsters…"

"I am not even dignifying that with a reply. Boot up and let's go."

Newsie blinked, surprised, at the finished report, which was barely a minute and a half long. "Uh…I thought this was our featured piece?"

"Yeah, you'd think so. But Murray kept sending it back, asking for cuts. My guess is they're decreasing your segment overall to put in more commercial time."

Newsie snorted. "They'd better not! If Blanke does that, I'll…I'll barge right into his office and…"

"And say what? 'Please sir, may I have some more newstime?' Come on!" Rhonda shook her head, disgusted. "Like he'd care! Ya know, he only reinstated Muppet News, I hear, 'cause of some sort of lawsuit threat by the ACLU."

"You've heard that too?" Newsie frowned. "We ought to investigate that!"

Rhonda sighed and rubbed her tiny eyes. "Later, sunshine, later. You want coffee? I've been up since four. My brothers moved in, temporarily they say, and their screaming toddlers kept me up…all three hundred of 'em…"

Taken aback, Newsie stared at her. "You've never mentioned your family before."

"And I never will again, believe me. There's a reason I got into the news business: it was calmer than my home life!" Rhonda paused at the door. "Regular or with that froofy cream you like?"

Newsie scowled at her. Rhonda nodded. "Froofy cream. Got it. Be right back. Your stories are on the makeup table." She trotted out, squeaking indignantly at some technician who nearly swept over her with a camera rolling out for repairs. "Hey! Eyes down here, genius!"

Tearing himself away from the graphic animation of the ConEd tunnel's possible collapse proved somewhat difficult; the disaster-film-style scenario was certainly compelling viewing. He couldn't imagine Murray or even Blanke wanting to cut any more of that, as astoundingly grim as it looked. He wondered whether water really would flush the sewer contents into the streets of Manhattan, as the animation showed, if and when that cracked tunnel wall fell in… The tiny animated society matron screaming as a flood of garbage and swimming rats swept her up Fifth Avenue was particularly fascinating… Shaking himself out of his morbid frame of mind, Newsie picked up the short stack of printed story notes for tonight and began reading them. 'Suggs receives vote of no confidence from American Fertilization Society'…'MADL makes a stink with cow pies at Occupy camp', hoo boy…'NYPD detective on administrative leave following cow-pie incident with protesting Muppets' –what? Oh no! Glumly, Newsie read the details of his friend Detective Pendziwater's suspension from the force for responding to the pie attack by a MADL member (he could guess which one) by grabbing a kid's can of spraypaint and coating the Muppet with Krylon Glossy Flamingo. Oh for crying out loud! He glanced up when Rhonda returned, and accepted the mug she held up for him. "Have you read this idiocy?"

"Every day, sweetheart, every day." The rat sipped her black coffee, watching the Newsman glower as he read through the whole stack. "Isn't that your contact on the force? Nice move, coating that mouthy wench. Can't say I blame him; those pies are really hard to wash out of a nice jacket."

"The Muppet is suing for assault, claiming she'll never get her felt back to midnight blue," Newsie replied, shaking his head. "What do they think they'll accomplish by harassing people?"

"Eh, there's a bad apple in every barrel. So, ya like the tunnel danger story?"

"It's…er…"

"'Must-see' is the phrase ya want, Goldie. I'm thinking, we lead with that, then the MADL muck-up, then Suggs, ya know, get the local stuff outta the way first. After those, talk about the rumors of anti-Muppet laws still on the books in Yemen and Syria, and the Muppet peace mission to Libya. Ya know, those guys are really brave, trying to get those shipments of water, medicine, and rubber chickens through the lines," Rhonda observed, chugging her coffee every other sentence.

"The international stories are much bigger news than MADL and Marvin Suggs," Newsie argued. "Although I agree: lead with the tunnels. Maybe emphasizing what we caught on film will persuade the authorities to mount a full-scale expedition down there, and root out some of those creatures! At the very least, it should deter people from venturing down there without backup and protection!"

Rhonda put one hand on her slim hip and glared at her reporter. "You're still thinking of going back down there, aren't you!"

Newsie blew out a breath in annoyance. "Someone has to! Rhonda, I – I heard about another possible angle to all this. Sweetums says there are some sort of monster pests infesting the subway!" Rhonda stared at him, speechless. "We should check it out! Can you get Tony to meet us at Rockefeller Center tomorrow morning? There are a bunch of disused tunnels down there; I think that would be the perfect place to start looking!"

"Looking for what? Newsie! You only just got over a case of congestion that woulda made an Easter Island statue look healthy, you did not get any evidence of so-called monsters, and—"

The Newsman's attempt at a reply was interrupted by the door swinging open. Blanke stood there a moment, looking uneasily from the rat producer to the Muppet journalist, until both of them realized he was there. "Uh…do you two have a minute?"

"Of course," Newsie muttered, throwing a scowl at Rhonda.

"Absolutely," Rhonda snapped, twitching her whiskers in disgust at Newsie.

Blanke saw the tunnel-disaster film paused on Newsie's laptop screen, and tapped it with a round finger. "I need to talk to you about that. Just how did you think you would get away with using station equipment to produce that without running up your costs?"

"I paid for it out-of-pocket," Newsie said quickly. "It didn't cost the station a thing!"

"Well…good. Because I'd hate for us to waste money on a piece that'll never air," Blanke grumbled. Newsie jerked, startled, and Rhonda leaped onto the desk where she could glare at their boss from chest-level instead of foot-level.

"What do you mean, never air? Do you know how much work went into that?" the rat yelled. "We saw ample evidence of ConEd's total neglect of that tunnel! It's a danger to all of lower Manhattan – maybe even the whole city! You gotta air this! Besides…we have animated sewer trash flow!"

"I have seen your film, and I have been in contact with upper management at the utilities company, and they assured me they are already aware of the problem and—"

"And they're dragging their feet while the city is in imminent danger of being overrun by monsters?" Newsie demanded. "Ow…" He winced, putting a hand to his chin where Rhonda had just thwacked him.

"Monsters? What are you talking about?" Blanke asked, eyes widening.

"Nothing. He didn't say nothing. But you gotta air this! It's…" Lost, Rhonda borrowed a phrase Newsie seemed as fond of as that stupid eagle: "It's our civic duty as journalists to present this to the public!"

Blanke's lips tightened in a pouty frown. "Absolutely not! To go on air and suggest that a company is putting the city in danger, with such flimsy footage? Do you know how much flack we'd get from the Mayor's office about that? Reyney over at ConEd golfs with the Mayor, for heaven's sake! He'd call City Hall, they'd call me, I'd have to air a…a retraction…" Blanke looked as though the very word gave him an ulcer. "No. This does not air. Not tonight, not ever! And furthermore, for that little end-run stunt, both of you are suspended from any and all reports which are not handed to you here at the station by Murray or myself! Got that?"

"You can't bury this!" Newsie protested, gesturing at the screen. "More people will go missing! The city could be flooded! Do you really want all that on your conscience?"

"You're assuming he has one," Rhonda muttered under her breath.

"It's irresponsible, it's unprovable, and it is not airing!" Blanke shouted, leaning over the shorter Newsman to get his superior position across. "No more special reports for the foreseeable future! Try that little stunt behind my back again, and you're both fired! Now get back to work!" He glared at both of them before stomping out.

Angrily, Newsie shouted after him, "This disaster will be on your head! Your politics will not protect you!" No response came; apparently Blanke was satisfied with having laid down his law. Despairing, Newsie sank into his desk chair. "What are we going to do?"

Rhonda sighed deeply. "What else can we do? We run the other stories. And we do not go trolling through the sewers again!"

"Please find some other term to use," Newsie muttered.

"You," Rhonda yelled at him, "are completely paranoid!"

"I am not!" Newsie retorted, his voice rough, feeling slammed on all sides. "D—it, rat, do the math! People vanishing! Monster goop in the tunnels! Other monsters afraid to ride the subway! Even your brethren are fleeing the undercity! Add it up and tell me there's nothing to it!"

Nose to nose, they stopped, small brown eyes glaring up into squinting dark ones behind thick glass. Rhonda opened her mouth, froze, shut it. She blinked, and grudgingly eased down. "I never saw any monster goop," she argued, "but…you have a point. My brothers never dared to ask to stay at my place before…" Newsie leaned back in his chair, shoulders still tense, but feeling less under attack as his producer slowly nodded. "And there were those rats protesting the other day… Did Sweetums really say he was afraid to ride the subway?"

"Well, he did say he never went into the undercity. He told Gina, and I quote: 'It's scary down there!' Does that sound normal to you?" Newsie stared at Rhonda until she sighed and shook her head.

"I can't believe that hulk of fur would be scared of anything. All right, just for the sake of argument, say there are monsters under New York. So…what could they possibly be doing except just avoiding paying rent at Trump Tower?"

"I don't know, but it can't be good! That thing tried to bite Gina…"

"Well, even if you actually saw that, which I still find questionable given your temperature yesterday, so what? They kinda have a rep for biting, ya know."

"I was not feverish! It was just a nose cold! And those stringy things were threatening my aunt, Rhonda! I had to post a guard today just to make sure she's safe, even if she might not…might not…" Choking to a halt, he slumped, and Rhonda saw the change in his expression from outraged to grieving.

"Hey…hey. Easy there. I'm…I'm sorry your auntie's not doing well." Awkwardly, the rat patted his hand.

"Rhonda, there's something else," Newsie said, his voice dropping to a scratchy whisper. "Someone has been impersonating me!"

She stared at him a long moment in silence. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I…I think…it's a monster," Newsie said, and now Rhonda heard actual fear in her fearless reporter's voice. "It sounded all…deep. And cold. And…and sinister." He shivered.

"Wait – you spoke to your identity thief?"

"They left a number at the asylum and at the hospital, pretending to be me, to get updates on my aunt's condition! I discovered the number today and called it, and I reached some sort of office, and…and that voice…"

"Well don't keep me in suspense! What did your mysterious impostor say?"

"He…it…answered with my name. My real name! And then it…it laughed at me." Newsie gulped. "And hung up. When I…when I tried calling back…the number was disconnected. That fast."

"Holy Bourne Identity, Goldie! What the heck did you stumble into?" Rhonda's eyes were wide; Newsie grabbed her paws in his hands.

"You believe me finally?"

"Do ya still have the number?"

Newsie immediately handed over his notepad. Rhonda frowned at the number, pulled out her cell and tried it. She listened a second, then shook her head. "No service, number disconnected. Did you call the cops?"

"Yes, but they didn't seem inclined to pursue it! Rhonda…why would anyone pretend to be me, and learn about my aunt's condition, unless they were connected somehow with the monsters I caught in her room?" He jumped from the chair, nervously pacing. "Why would they want her hurt? She was never involved in anything shady! This is all since those weird yippy things started hanging around her! What if she learned something about them, something, I don't know – compromising?"

"As low as Scribbler is, I have yet to see a photo of a monster in a compromising position in that rag," Rhonda said. "What could possibly be so bad and secret? They're monsters! They…they eat critters, okay, that's bad, but it's hardly a secret! They hide under beds, they creep outta closets at night, they have really bad fashion sense in footgear…"

"Hide under beds?" Newsie shuddered. "I'm glad Gina's is a platform model!" He made a mental note to check their closet tonight, however…

"Monster stories, injured aunt, people vanishing, cracks in a ConEd tunnel," Rhonda noted all on her delicate claws one by one. "I just don't see connections! But…as far as that phone number is concerned…we might have an angle on that." She gave him a determined nod, and adjusted the sash on her angora cardigan with the air of a woman about to shove her way through a crowd. "I think I oughta introduce you to one of my old contacts, 'Ma Bell.' If anyone can track this number for ya, she can."

Newsie paused his anxious pacing and fidgeting. "Uh…won't that go against Blanke's order, if we work on a special report?"

"Who said anything about a report? This is a personal favor for my dear colleague, the guy with the very large nose for news – even if that nose leads him up the wrong tree half the time." Rhonda grinned suddenly. "Now if it happens to turn into a story, well…I do still know some folks back at the Times…"

Newsie swallowed, fumbled for words, and finally took her paw in his hand. "Rhonda…you're the queen."

She snorted. "Look, sunshine. Monsters you worry about on your own time. I will corner my brothers and find out why they suddenly wanna visit now, and you will find out why someone has been trying ta be you." She tilted her head sideways, gazing up in some skepticism. "They actually used your real name? The, what is it, Alicious thing?"

"Aloysius," he muttered. "Yes. Outside of a few official records, and, er, Gina…that's not common knowledge."

"That is deeply disturbing," Rhonda murmured, grabbing her scarf and tucking it artfully around her neck. "Who the heck would want to?"

"Exactly! I'm sure it must be connected to—" Newsie abruptly caught the inference, and stopped cold, huffing. "Hey!"

"Can it, Goldie. Grab your coat, Gina'll kill me if I let you catch another cold. Let's hustle."

"Wh-where are we going? The news…" Newsie stammered, looking back at the pile of items he was supposed to be mulling over for tonight's broadcast.

"Can wait. We have a doppelganger wannabe to track down." She gave him a dubious look while he fumbled with his overcoat; the russet-and-gray hound's-tooth wasn't bad on its own, but he'd dressed after Gina had left this morning for her own work at the Sosilly, and his favorite brown-plaid sportscoat and the orange-and-brown argyle-patterned tie he'd chosen made Rhonda wish she'd brought her shades today. "Sheesh. I sure hope whoever he is, he doesn't dress like you."

"Rhonda!"

"Come on. Nose pointing this way, Cyrano. If we hurry, Blanke won't notice we're gone and back before he returns from his two-hour lunch! Move it!"

Not sure whether to feel grateful or insulted, the Newsman followed the confident little rat out of the building by the back stairs. With any luck, perhaps he'd uncover the connection he just knew was there between the yipping things, the tunnels, the disappearances… Grimly, he hurried down to the street, where a modicum of sunlight fought the chilly breezes sweeping along the midtown sidewalks.

Despite all Rhonda's protests, he absolutely refused to take the subway.


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY. _In which Martians invade an apartment and have a snack; and rodents run the phone company._

The apartment was fully in love with autumn. That's how it appeared, at any rate: swags of silk leaves in reds and golds, many with coppery glitter dusting the lobes, dangled from every doorway and twined along curtains in the bedroom and the bath. Strings of tiny lights hung in the squared-off arched doorways, twined through grapevines loosely framing the wide living room windows, and flickered among a collection of wooden, ceramic, and real pumpkins crowding the sill. Gina had decorated cautiously at first, then when Newsie said he liked it, she threw all her enthusiasm for the season into it. A centerpiece of gourds, leaves, tall candles and fake spiderwebs crowned the dining room table beneath a slowly drifting mobile of black paper bats. Jack-o'lanterns of metal, pottery, and plastic peeked out of every possible cranny. Only the bedroom was largely untouched, as Newsie had said he didn't want the grinning pumpkins or fluttery bats to give him bad dreams. All the household linens sported falling-leaf patterns, from the kitchen towels to the throw rugs in the hall. Gina had deliberately not used her collection of skeletons this year, hoping to ease her nervous journalist into the idea that they weren't actually scary. The only thing she'd taken down to the thrift store to donate was the box with the pumpkinheaded monster in it, which normally she hung outside the living room windows to glare down at the street (and their neighbors) below. Newsie might be gently coaxed into accepting a few Dios de los Muertos figurines, even after their last run-in with the actual reaper, but she knew he would never, ever be willing to have a monster in their private sanctuary, even a fake one.

He would have been horrified to see the two long-tentacled things materializing in the living room.

"Aaawww," the pink thing drawled, jerking its head as it peered up, down, and around.

"Awww, mm. Uh-huh, uh-huh," the blue thing said, its antennae twitching, scanning the area for any sign of life. It spotted a framed photograph on the windowsill among the pumpkins. "News! Awwww! News, News, yip yip yip yip!"

"Yip yip yip!" its companion agreed, and they crowded close to the picture. "Greet. Ings."

"Hel. Lo." They waited, but the photo of the couple, Newsie seated on Gina's lap with her arms around him and his arms resting on hers, both smiling, made no reply to the Martians. "Greet-ings. Hel-lo."

"Mn," grunted the pink one, shaking its head. "Nope. Nopenopenopenope."

"Hel-lo," the blue one tried again, then had to agree with the pink one. "Uh-uh. Noooope."

The pink one peered behind the photo, then jerked back in fright. "Flat! Flat! Awww!"

"Flaaaat?" Sure enough, there was no dimension to the picture. "Awww! Flat! Yip yip yip!"

"Book! Book book book book," the pink one asserted, pulling out their travel guide. Together they studied it. The blue one turned a couple of pages, then started up in realization.

"Aaaaaw! Pic-ture! Pic-ture! Yip yip yip yip yip!"

"Yip yip yip yipyipyip uh-huh!"

Trying a different tactic, the blue one took a deep breath, then drew himself up as flat as he could, startling his comrade. In a strained, toneless voice, the blue one addressed the frame again: "Greet-ings." The pink one jerked behind him and before him, amazed at how compressed the blue one had managed to make himself. "Hel-lo," the blue one tried again, still receiving no reply. Forced to let out its breath, it flumped out into its normal dimensions once more, then shook its head. "Uh-uh. Uh-uh. Nope nope."

"Uh-uh. Nope nope nope. Hmmmm."

They hadn't pondered the problem very long when the clacking of a key in the front door frightened them both; they yanked their lower jaws over their heads, then skittered behind the large armoire in the living room. Gina kicked the door open gently, wriggling the key back out of the lock while she managed an armful of bags through the doorway. She set the bags down momentarily to close the door; the noise startled the Martians back from their tentative peeking around the edge of the armoire.

Gina checked the bags' contents, picking up those which held food and carrying them into the kitchen. She'd decided to make some pumpkin-ginger mini cupcakes to take to Fozzie's party this weekend, and had also stocked up on frozen foods in anticipation of next week being busier than usual, with the likelihood of several nights without time to cook when the Sosilly swung into full rehearsals and tech builds for the upcoming November shows. I'd still like to know who decided 'The Homecoming' and 'Charley's Aunt' would make a good rep schedule, she thought as she tossed bags of cut broccoli and Brussels sprouts in the freezer. A weirder dichotomy I've never seen themed around "home for the holidays"! As she turned, she was too preoccupied with hunting through a bag for the ingredients for the cupcakes to notice two raggy-limbed creatures huddling just around the archway to the dining room.

"Mn. Not News," the blue one observed, shaking its head. "Uh-uh. Uh-uh."

"Mmm, nope nope," the pink one said, staring at the young woman while she bent over to rummage in a grocery bag for the missing cardamom. "Not News… Not…flat."

"Nope nope, noooot flat," the blue one said admiringly, the two of them crawling atop one another restlessly to get a better view without falling into the edge of light from the kitchen. This turned into something of an aggrieved wrestling match until Gina turned around, and both of them jerked back, flattening themselves against the dining room baseboard as Gina strode past, looking at her phone instead of the carpet.

No messages; she hoped that meant her Newsie was having a relatively easy day so far. Of course, it could just as easily mean he was having a terrible day. She sighed, and called his cell. After one ring, his voicemail picked up gruffly: "This is the Muppet News Line! Please leave your news lead and your contact information after the beep. Uh…" Clack. Clunk. Clunk. "Er. What do I press?" Rhonda's muffled voice: "Just hit end, genius." "Oh. Uh…" Click. Beeep.

Shaking her head, Gina took a deep breath and refrained from telling him again he really ought to fix that message. "Hi, cutie, it's me. We had to finish early today because the owners are showing some charity group around; they're renting out the space in a couple weeks for some one-night event. It means I'll have to go back in tonight to finish organizing those flats because we need to put together a buy list for any materials we're missing and get 'em tomorrow in order to start build week on Monday…anyway. What that means for us is I won't be home in time for dinner, so please warm up whatever you want; I just bought stuff and it's in the freezer, okay?" She paused, concerned but not wanting to embarrass him by sounding overly so. "Hope your day's going all right. Call me back when you get this, and maybe we can arrange a quick bite at your theatre tonight instead. If not, I understand. I love you." Reluctantly she hung up, then remembered the bags still parked in the living room and debated laying their contents out on the sofa for her love to find. She grinned as she peeked into the plain shopping bags full of things she'd borrowed from the Sosilly's wardrobe with the giggling permission of the costume shop supervisor.

The Martians stared in fascination at the scarlet-haired human digging through large bags. "Whaaat? What what what?" the blue one murmured as they peered around the dining room doorway at her.

"Mn. Book," the pink one muttered, consulting their well-worn guide. "Bag," it announced, though it had the sense to keep its voice low.

"Awww, bag," said the blue one. "Bag! Yip yip yip."

"Bag, uh-huh." They watched, puzzled, while Gina stuffed the costumes back into the bags with a chuckle and carried them down the hallway to the bedroom. Pink gave blue a confused look. "News in bag? Awwww?"

Hah! Serves him right for being 'too busy,' Gina thought, grinning at the reaction she could easily imagine her Newsman having when he saw what she'd picked out for him to wear to the Halloween party. He'd ducked out of their arranged shopping trip this past Monday, spending the evening hunched over a stack of blueprints after anxiously talking her into accompanying him on the failed tunnel expedition…and of course after that he'd been too ill to leave the house. So, now he'll just have to wear this! Oh, man, I have to bring the camera. This'll be too cute. She was fairly sure she'd walked exactly down the line between "adorable" and "mortifying" with her choice for his costume, and knew he would like hers…and although she wasn't sure how many Muppets had actually read Poe, the ones who had would surely enjoy the theme of both outfits. Best as a surprise, she decided, and stuffed the bags into the closet under her rack of skirts and blouses to await revelation on Saturday. He'd better be able to take the night off! She knew he'd requested it right after telling her of Fozzie's invitation, so hopefully they'd be able to go early and spend the night out at the Bear Farm as planned. She doubted Muppets would be partying late, and he'd told her it was a two-hour drive. "Not with me driving," she'd promised him, which earned her a nervous look…but still, it would be good to get there before dusk, so they wouldn't have to try to find the rural house in the dark on unfamiliar roads.

The Martians fell over themselves scrambling out of the way as the young woman walked swiftly back through the hall to the living room, pausing only briefly to collect her keys, her hair now swathed in a trailing black crepe headscarf, a number of bracelets jingling on her wrists, and a flowing skirt with colorful paisleys over black floating along as she moved. The propmaster had told her today about a craft fair going on in the Village in which he had a booth to sell his silversmithing; he'd invited her to offer her card readings there, for a share of the profits. Gina glanced at the pumpkins on the windowsill, pleased with the sight of leaves blowing past from the tall water-oak outside the building. She was happy her beloved Muppet liked fall almost as much as she did.

The stringy creatures watched around the corner as the human leaned over the flat picture to touch her lips to the glass. "My cutie," she said, and chuckled once. "Ooh, I can't wait to see you in that costume!" She checked to be sure the pouch holding her new deck was drawn tight, and without a backward look left the apartment. When the place remained silent a few seconds, the intruders crept out into the living room once more.

"Cu-tie?" the blue one wondered, tentacling through the book without success. "Hmmm. Nope. No cu-tie. Nopenopenope."

Making the connection, the pink one gestured at the framed photo. "Cu-tie…News!"

"Aaaawww!" Sagely, both began wriggling around the photo. "Yiiiiiip yip yip yip! Cu-tie! Yip yip!"

"Still flat," the blue one pointed out.

"Hmmmmm. Awww. Hmmm…"

Struck by a brilliant idea, the pink one raised itself up on tentacle-tips. "AwwAW! The-a-ter!"

"Uh?"

"News. The-a-ter! Cu-tie!"

"Aaaw! Yip yip yip yip yip!"

"Uh huh! Uh huh! The-a-ter!"

The blue one began to shimmer from side to side, but his companion stopped him with the touch of a raggy appendage. "Uh-uh! Food!"

"Uh?"

"Food!"

"Aaaaw foooood! Yip yip yip fooood yip yip yip!"

Pleased with their plans, the two jerked and wriggled into the kitchen, where they proceeded to happily munch the empty paper bags, their enormous mouths chewing in a circular motion like deranged cows.

"Mm. Chew-y. Mmmm."

"Mmmmm. Nom nom nom."

"Nom nom! Yip!"

The Newsman followed Rhonda uncertainly, feeling very out of place; he was, for once, the tallest person in the room. Rats peered suspiciously at him from their posts at banks of tall computers, or ignored him as they went about their mysterious tasks. "Rhonda…this place looks like a telephone switchboard," he muttered.

"Score one for Captain Obvious. It is a switchboard. More precisely, this is the switchboard, the big one, routing all of Manhattan!" The stylish rat held her head high, her sleek waves of hair bouncing along as she trotted between server racks and old-fashioned banks of plugs and wires and cords.

Newsie stared at a row of plump rats sporting bouffants, all squeaking into the mikes of the headsets they wore around the backs of their ears so as not to disturb the perfection of their hair. One on the end nearest him turned to glare at him through sharp cat-frame glasses, and he looked away, embarrassed. "Ahem! Er…I thought all this was computerized now?"

"That stuff is expensive! How d'ya think these guys cut costs and make such ginormous profits all the time?"

"Um…" Newsie noticed a gathering crowd trailing after him. "Rhonda!" he hissed anxiously, "there are rats following us!"

She snorted. "They'd better be, considering what you're carrying! Now hurry up and be careful not to drop it! Here we are…" They turned a corner, the aisle broadening, and Newsie was amazed at the rows upon rows of rats at desks, rapidly talking on old-fashioned black dial phones, hurrying to and fro with messages, occasionally hanging the phones up and either dialing again or looking up excitedly at plastic tubes hanging over every desk.

Newsie saw one rat grin as she slammed down her phone, and immediately thereafter, a bell sounded and a large pellet dropped from the tube onto her desk. She attacked it greedily, the rats around her giving her jealous glances while they talked: "So can I sign you up for the Preferred Family Plan? You'll save twenty dollars a month over what an obscure long-distance company in Fiji charges…" "No, I'm sorry, call forwarding is not included in that package, but if you'd like to upgrade to the Every Bell and Whistle Unnecessary Feature Plan…" "No ma'am, we do not send technicians out to unstick a roach from your wall jack; you'll have to speak to our Phone Pest Division. Transferring you now…"

"I thought you said the world had moved past rotary dial?" Newsie grumbled at Rhonda, casting uneasy looks behind him; there seemed to be quite a lot of rats silently leaving their desks and following him…

"Quiet already! We're here," Rhonda snapped, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and smiling up at a very large, very gray rat sitting in a plush chair, surveying the whole room from her platform within a glass enclosure. The rat pretended not to notice them at first, staring distantly out at her workers, her tall gray beehive perfectly arranged and held in place with rhinestone-studded bobby pins. Newsie thought it impossible that the rat hadn't seen them approach, but kept his mouth shut and let his producer take the lead, his fingers clamped around the bakery box they'd bought at Rhonda's direction a short while ago. Finally the queen rat deigned to look down, and smiled at Rhonda.

"Well, well! The prodigal returns! How's life in the sucker's world, sweetie?" she asked, giving Newsie a very direct stare while she waited for Rhonda's reply.

The blonde rat chuckled; Newsie thought she sounded a little nervous, which worried him. He could feel rats breathing on his coattail. "Eh, you know, same old same old. You sell 'em airtime, I sell 'em current events and ads," Rhonda squeaked.

"And hamsterburgers," the queen rat said, amused.

Rhonda threw a quick glare at her reporter. "Not anymore."

"Well, how lovely of you to drop in and see us," the large rat said, putting on a pair of tiny round glasses to peer at the box Newsie held. "And what does your man have for us?"

"Oh, uh, this is Newsie. He works with me at the station," Rhonda said, warning the journalist with a look not to comment on the presumption that he worked for her. "Newsie, this is 'Ma Bell.' Ma, we brought you…cheesecake!"

Sharp beady eyes studied them both. "From DeRobertis?"

Affronted, Rhonda put her paws on her hips. "Is Woody Allen a geek?"

The gray rat snorted a laugh. "Please, come in. Shut the door."

Awkwardly, Newsie stepped into the small space beyond the glass wall and closed the hinged panel they'd come through behind him. At Rhonda's nod, he handed the box up to Ma Bell. She opened the lid just enough to take a deep sniff of the contents, smiled, and set the box aside, gently dropping from her perch to hug and air-kiss Rhonda on both cheeks. "Well! Now I know this isn't a social call. What are you after? Need the private line of another specialty piercing artist?"

"No, no, actually, Newsie has a problem," Rhonda squeaked hurriedly, ignoring the raised brows the journalist gave her. "Nothing like that. Uh…someone was claiming to be him, and gave out a local number as their contact point. As soon as Newsie found out about it the number was disconnected…"

"Ah. Yes, of course. Do you have it?" Ma Bell asked the Newsman, somehow able to make him feel shorter than her with a long cool stare.

"Ahem. Um." Not sure what was going on here, Newsie pulled out his notepad and handed it to the rat.

She read the number writ on it, and without looking up bellowed: "Jonas!"

A shivering little rat in a blue necktie popped up at the glass wall immediately, though he had to squirm past a crowd. "Y-yes, your gorgeousness?"

"He's so cute. His mama used to work for me," the queen explained in a low voice, then slapped the notepad against the glass so Jonas could see it. "Find me this person. Now."

"Y-yes ma'am!" With a twitch of a nervous tail, the rat vanished.

The queen turned back to Newsie, smiling as she looked him up and down again. "You'll have an answer shortly. So, what is it you do for darling Rhonda?"

"Er…I'm a reporter for KRAK News, and the weekend anchor. Uh, I also deliver newscasts at the Muppet Theatre."

"Ooh, a reporter digging into a mysterious conspiracy, how exciting!" Ma Bell purred, sidling around to view Newsie from all sides. Uneasily he tried to follow her movements without actually turning in a circle. "Cute nose," she commented to Rhonda.

"Um. We're not…" Rhonda said quickly, shaking her head and waving her hands in a no way gesture for good measure.

"Oh?" The stare Ma Bell was giving him made Newsie want to cringe, but there was nowhere to go in the tight space of the enclosure; the raised platform took up most of the tiny room.

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "He's spoken for, Ma."

"I can look," Ma Bell said, sounding amused.

"Er…what exactly goes on down here?" Newsie asked, trying to get the focus off of him.

"Isn't it obvious? We rout calls, we sell airtime to the company's cell customers, and we check up on every account the company opens to make sure the money rolls on in," Ma Bell chuckled, one languid paw sweeping around to indicate the entire operation.

"And…and everyone working for this phone company is a rat?"

"Oh, no, darling. The board of directors are humans." She grinned, showing sharp teeth, leaning uncomfortably close to the Newsman. "But I know everything about them, and I mean everything. You'd be amazed how much information some people will provide over a phone line…"

"Especially when they don't know anyone is listening in," Rhonda added, and Ma Bell laughed.

"You – you listen in on people's private conversations?" Newsie was appalled.

"Rats have done so for hundreds of years, sweetheart! But I was the one who realized we could make it a little more profitable than listening through the walls while scavenging for leftover bread pudding!" Ma Bell grinned again. "Do tell me your number. I'd love to overhear your one-nine-hundred calls!"

Rhonda tried to smooth over Newsie's startled recoil. "So I heard the company has a new CEO. Got any dirt on him yet?"

Turning to her, Ma Bell smiled. "Honey, how do you think he got that position? I could tell you how many of his close, personal friends of the female persuasion are natural blondes! He made a sweet deal with me, and I provided some tasty little tidbits about the other board members for his use in his bid for the chair. He owes me a dinner a week at Ma Maison – with dessert!"

"Blackmail?" Newsie asked, although Rhonda shot him a you can shut up now look.

Ma Bell tickled his chin before he could jerk away. "Aren't you a dear! Well yes, honey; what do you think makes the world go around? Oh, look, here's Jonas." She stepped close to the glass panel; the sea of rats seemed endless just on the other side of it, and phones were ringing loudly.

"It – it belonged to a production studio until this morning," the little rat gasped, fighting to stay close to the wall and be heard. "A television company! They disconnected it manually at ten-twenty-two this morning, and then called to change the number."

"Give me the new number. Give me all their numbers," Ma Bell commanded, and Jonas, fighting not to be squashed against the glass, held up a piece of paper with a printed list of phone numbers. "There you are," Ma Bell told Newsie; hastily he took back his notepad and scribbled down the numbers. "And the name of the company?"

"Ars Moribunda Studios…owned by MMN…owned by Nofrisko," Jonas squeaked out before being buried under a surge of rats. Unconcerned, Ma Bell turned away, watching the Newsman writing the information.

"Is that enough?" she asked. Newsie frowned at his notepad.

"Nofrisko…aren't they a snack company?"

"They make those little crackers with imitation peanut butter between 'em," Rhonda supplied. "Ya know, the ones that taste a little gamy."

"I don't eat that stuff," Newsie scowled at her. "And why does MMN sound familiar?"

"They're trouncing your timeslot on Saturdays," Rhonda growled. "Hey, maybe this is just a case of journalistic espionage!"

"Why would they want my aunt watched?" Newsie argued. "She doesn't have anything to do with KRAK!"

Ma Bell spread her silky smooth paws. "Well, there you have it. I wish you good hunting; I'm sure you'll be able to sniff them out just fine." She smiled, giving Newsie's long, pointed nose a long, appreciative stare; he only barely resisted the urge to cover it with both hands. "It was certainly nice seeing you again, Rhonda dear. Thank you ever so much for the cheesecake…which will not be handed out to anyone not at their desk in two seconds!" she broke into a deep yell, and the noise on the other side of the glass squeaked to an abrupt halt. Newsie glanced back to see hundreds of little rat faces squashed flat against the glass staring in terror at their queen; then with a torrent of whipping tails, scrabbling paws, and shrieks, every single rodent abandoned their quest to catch a sniff of the cheesecake and resumed their posts, talking quickly on their phones, running back and forth with messages, and plugging circuits into switchboards.

Ma Bell checked an elaborate stopwatch. "Oh dearie me. Two point two seconds. Looks like I'm the only one who gets the cake today." A collective but muted groan came from the work floor. The queen grinned wickedly. "I love doing that," she confessed in a whisper. She reached up and patted Newsie's cheek. "Ooh, fuzzy. You come back too, all right? Maybe we can share a nibble."

Newsie couldn't get out the door fast enough. "Thanks, Ma," Rhonda called, trying to slow Newsie down to a respectful pace, hanging onto his coatsleeve as he moved determinedly toward the far exit. "I'll see ya at Thanksgiving!"

"Blackmail! Eavesdropping!" Newsie snorted once they were out of the room and climbing the tiny stairs back to street level; from the modern façade of the phone company building, he never would have guessed a network of rat spies labored beneath the retail store and offices. "And 'Ma Bell'? Give me a break!"

"Hey, stop kvetching, you got what ya needed, didn't you?" Rhonda said, checking her phone for the time. "Come on, if we hurry we can act like we've been working the whole time when Blanke walks in!"

He noticed the phone. "Don't tell me you're with that company!"

She shrugged. "I get good rates. And I know better than to whisper sweet nothings on a wireless line. Why d'ya think their logo is the Death Star, anyway?"

She hailed a cab. Newsie shook his head, still tense after being so frankly…observed. "That – that woman! Did you really work for her?"

"Work for her? Heck no!" Rhonda sighed. "But ya know what they say, ya can't choose your family…"

"Your…" Newsie's eyes widened. "Ma Bell?"

Rhonda favored him with another eye-roll as the cab pulled up. "I guess you do have an excuse for the density, sunshine, what with all those cantaloupes whacking your noggin lately. Get in, I wanna grab a bite on the way."

Speechless for once, the Newsman had to be shoved to remember to climb into the cab. They made better progress through midtown traffic when Rhonda promised the driver a cheesecake too.


	21. Chapter 21-1

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (part one). _In which a visitor witnesses some very odd things; Gonzo brings down the house; and Clifford's attempts to bring order to Muppet chaos prove futile._

The number of names on the charity walk sign-up sheet had grown substantially when Rizzo stopped to check it. He'd tallied the "donations" from the sewer rats earlier today, and felt confident his total thus far was better than most of the Muppets who'd signed up. Pepe was already glancing at the roster, mumbling under his breath: "Jou gotta be kidding. Where's he gonna get sponsors, the head shop?"

"Looks like you got some competition," Rizzo said.

"Jou funny. Is nobody that can compete with Pepe!"

"Whatevah." Rizzo shook his head at a couple of names. "Zoot's in? Really?"

"See, that is what I said! What, like, is he gonna sleepwalk through it, okay?"

Rizzo chortled. "Eh, in all fairness, he probably didn't even know what he was signin'. Huh…looks like da whole Mayhem joined in. Dat ain't good."

"Sí, sí, Animal should go firsts, okay, so we don't get stepped on," Pepe nodded vigorously.

"No, you prawn cracker! Dey're famous, ya know? I bet hundreds of fans will pledge money for dem!"

Pepe paused. "Are jou suggesting I am not more famous?"

"Don't get me started," Rizzo growled. The two looked up as the Chef bellied up to the notice board and tried to scrawl his signature, ran out of room on the line, scratched his head a moment, then brightly wrote TOM. He ambled back to the canteen, whistling cheerfully. "Who's sponsorin' him, da board of health?" Rizzo snickered.

"Jou know, jou should just drop out now, amigo. No way can jou hopes to beat the number of sponsors I has!"

"Oh yeah? I got t'irty-two so far – and over a hundred dollars pledged!"

The prawn shoved his nose close to the rat's twitching whiskers. "So what? I gots seventy-two sponsors and a hundreds and four dollars!"

"You realize dat means my sponsors have more faith in me than yours do in you!" Smugly, Rizzo sat back on his haunches. "I wonder if dere's any prize for winnin' dis race?"

"Like, rully, it's not about racing," Janice said, having overheard the last part of the discussion.

"Yeah, little dudes; it's all about makin' the world a groovier place for us and everyone!" Floyd turned to his girl. "Y'know, that's not a bad idea, though. What say we talk to the frog about offerin' up some kinda prize for the Muppet who raises the most for charity?"

Dr Teeth, following the couple across the green room, chuckled hoarsely. "Right on! How about a little payin' back for those payin' it forward!"

"Like, you guys are missing the whole point, y'know," Janice complained.

"Hey, this charity fund is to benefit Muppets, isn't it?" Teeth asked, grinning widely. "Ain't I a Muppet?"

"Sometimes, that man is very deep, okay," Pepe observed respectfully.

"Well if dere is a prize, I'll be sure ta take a picture of it for ya, 'cause that's as close as you'll ever get to it!" Rizzo taunted the prawn.

"Oh yeah? Well if there's a prize at the end of this huge drain on my time, okay, I will be the one sending pictures to jou – oh, wait, I cannot do thats; jou doesn't have the iPhones already!" Pepe waggled his shrimp-sized high-tech smartphone at the rat.

"Too bad dere's no such t'ing as an iPrawn," Rizzo shot back haughtily. "Oh, my bad: dey haven't invented a smartshrimp yet!"

Below the ensuing racket, a dark, sinuous figure crept in from the understage tunnel, gently pulling along a taller person cloaked in a stylish wool overcoat and holding an elegant cane. "Wow. It's even noisier back here than I imagined," Countie remarked, listening to the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the hum of conversation, muted shouting from upstairs, and loud shouting from a few feet away.

"That's nothing; you should hear it on a bad night," Uncle Deadly assured his guest. "Here's the green room. Watch the piano…"

"Uh…is there a tannery or a butcher's over there?" Countie asked, wrinkling his nose as he caught an unfortunate whiff of rotting things.

"No…that's the canteen. Delightful, isn't it?" the dragon murmured, smiling. "Now, through here are chairs, just go slow…"

"Hey, ol' blue and scary, who's your friend?" Floyd asked.

Deadly drew himself up to pronounce coldly, "A very dear friend of mine, so I had better not hear of anyone giving him any trouble, do you understand?"

Silenced by that chilly voice, Rizzo and Pepe paused their argument; an instant of silence swept through the room. "We can dig it," Dr Teeth said amiably, and stuck one long arm out to touch the stranger's hand. "Welcome and salutitations, my optically challenged brothah! They call me Teeth, and this is my bass axe Floyd, and the sweet siren of the six-string, Janice, and –"

"AN-I-MAL! AN-I-MAL!"

"Easy there, Animal! He's—"

"The drummer," Countie said, smiling. "And I guess Zoot is around here somewhere?"

"Huh?" the saxman asked groggily before slipping back into a trance on the nearest sofa.

"Exactly," Teeth laughed. "Hey, hey! We got us a fan!"

"The Electric Mayhem!" Countie said happily, and quickly removed his overcoat to dig into the satchel he had slung over one shoulder underneath it. "Would you mind signing some autographs for me?" The band gathered around as Countie found the tabletop and began laying small, longish slabs of damp clay in plastic wrap upon it.

"Uh, whatta we do with these?" Floyd wondered, picking up one of the thin slabs.

"I can feel your signatures in those," Countie explained. "They dry out, and then I bake them in the oven, and…"

"Oh, wow! It's like having your own tiny walk of fame," Janice exclaimed, grasping the idea immediately. She unwrapped one of the pieces and used her guitar pick to carefully carve her name into it.

"Cool," Floyd agreed, following suit. "Hey, that's pretty nifty, man! Hey, Zoot, check it out! Brother's gonna take all these little clay bits and make hisself a Muppetational mosaic!" He coughed his raspy laugh.

Zoot shook his head. "No, man, I don't like clay pipes…water-pipe's got a cleaner drag…"

"Oh, rully," Janice sighed, shaking her head.

In the back alley, the Newsman sprinted up the loading-dock steps, one hand keeping a tight grip on his attaché case which held his laptop and, tonight, about half of the stack of leads emailed to the station. He hoped to have time to read through them during the show. Clifford halted him just inside the building, armed with a clipboard and a frown. "Yo, Newsie. Good to see you back, but you're ten minutes late!"

"Sorry," Newsie panted. "I had to change clothes. There, uh, was a story about the Muppet aid convoy to Libya…bottled water…"

Clifford noticed the yellow Muppet shivering, and let it slide. "Well, don't catch another cold, man! I'll look for you in the green room when there's a News Flash, all right?" The Newsman nodded and hurried downstairs. Clifford sighed, and checked off the reporter's name on the night's roster. "Guess that's everyone aboard that's goin' aboard." He settled himself at Kermit's desk to look over the schedule of acts he'd painstakingly compiled and posted a copy of both back here and downstairs, so there would be no arguments over who did what when.

Naturally, no sooner was he seated than he was pelted with objections. "Whuh-hey, catfish dude!" Lew Zealand said, waving a terribly overripe cod at the host. "How come my boomerang fish act was left off the list?"

"'Cause it ain't never gonna be on the list, man," Clifford sighed, feeling a headache starting already. Good gravy, I can not WAIT for Scooter and the green dude to get back in town…

"But I got a new routine! Check it out! I throw the pail a-way –"

"You expect the pail to come back?"

Lew laughed. "Aw heck no, that'd be weird! No – the fish brings it back! Fetch, Percy!" Lew shouted, hurling the fish after the pail.

"Lew, not tonight, okay?" Clifford checked the clock, then his watch. "Uh, hey, Beauregard?" The janitor stopped dusting the odd collection of random props by the stairs, bright eyes attentive as he looked over at Clifford. "Listen, man, can you do a quick check of the electrics? I don't know where that stagepig's got to…and can you change that clock so it reads right?"

"Sure!" Beau said, then frowned. "Uh, I didn't know clocks had reading levels…but don't you worry, Clifford! I will find you a clock from the advanced reading class!"

"Never mind, man," Cliff groaned. "Can you just run up the dimmers on those lights?"

Beau scratched his furry scalp. "Uhhh…wouldn't that be the brighteners? Or do you mean you want them all darker?"

Lights are on, but nobody's home, Cliff thought, wrestling his impatience under control. "Just bring 'em all up so I can see they're working, all right, please?"

"Check!" Beau replied, hurrying across the stage to the lighting board. Clifford, shades in place to shield his eyes from the thousand-watt lamps, watched as each section of lights came up over the stage and from the bays over the house.

Dang it, why is there always ONE? he wondered silently, sighing. At least this time it was a simple six-inch fresnel downlight relegated to backlighting the cyc. Nobody would miss it, so he wouldn't stress about checking it now. He yelled for Beau to take the lights back down to preset, which the janitor misheard as "take them down and reject," but fortunately the lighting pig returned from his mud break just then before Beau could manage to unscrew one of the sidelights, and chased the bewildered Muppet out of the wing with angry snorts. Sinking down at the desk once more, Clifford sipped his lukewarm coffee and grimaced. Two more nights. Just two more nights.

"Excuse me, Mr Clifford?" trilled a wavering voice. Clifford raised his head to find Wanda standing there, smiling. "I just wanted to thank you for casting me in the dramatic piece tonight! I promise you won't regret it!"

"Then that'd be the first thing tonight," Clifford muttered, but he managed a weak smile for the eager singer. "No problem, Curly. Just don't miss your entrance cue is all I ask."

"Oh, I won't! I won't! Oh, finally, a real role onstage!" Wanda gushed. Piggy, passing through on her way downstairs for a nosh, perked her soft ears, frowned, and changed course.

"Ah, ahem. Cliffie?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh, hey Piggy. Did the costume for 'Harvest Moon' get altered right?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't have to deal with wardrobe malfunctions on top of everything else.

"Oh, oh, yes, it's lovely. Ummm…did moi overhear correctly, that Wanda is getting a serious role tonight?" she edged closer, tossing a contemptuous look back at Wanda, who was gaily tripping up the stairs to the ladies' general dressing-room.

"Uh, yeah. Why, you don't think she can pull it off?"

"Oh, ha ha, well, of course I will leave the management of, ahem, talent to the Muppet my Kermie put in charge in his absence," Piggy said sweetly. "However, need I point out that moi does not yet have a specific part in tonight's show?"

"What? Piggy, you're in the closing number!" Clifford protested, shaking his head. "All us guys are gonna be singin' that golden oldie to you!"

"Yes, but moi does not actually play a major role, comprendez-vous? And…you know how much it helps me, with my frog not here, to bury my sorrow by throwing myself into my work fully?"

A few paces away, Strangepork muttered to Link, "I tink she's gonna bury someone else if he doesn't give her dat role!" Link chuckled.

Clifford tried reason. "Look, Piggy, it's really a small role, that bit with Wanda; I didn't think you'd be into it. Whereas the closing number…"

"Listen, bandito-snout," Piggy growled, grabbing the host's long mustaches in one firm hand. "Obviously you don't understand how this works around here! I am the leading lady at this theatre, and I did not reach this level of stardom by staying in the chorus! So not only will I be the star attraction in the closing number, but you will also cast moi for that dramatic piece!"

Clifford froze; oh, so that was where the diva he remembered had gone – she was only tamed when her darling frog was around! "Hey, uh, sure; if you really want to do that silly act, you sure can. I'll tell Wanda I'll put her in the chorus ensemble for 'Harvest Moon' instead. We cool?"

Piggy released him, smiling gently. "As a cucumber eye treatment, mon ami." She glided away in her pre-show robe and slippers, and Clifford stroked his mustache, relieved.

He glanced again at his watch, ignoring the incorrect clock above the desk: five minutes until the house opened. Cranking up the intercom and settling a headset over one ear, he called out, hoping every speaker was working tonight: "Five minutes 'til people start pouring in, y'all! I repeat, that's five minutes to house open! I don't wanna see any of you lookin' through the seats for malted milk balls tonight, got it?" He sighed, seeing two of the rats scurrying over the lip of the stage and dashing into the shadows, carrying boxes of popcorn and discarded half-candy-bars. "Oh, and Wanda, sweetheart, come see me." He switched off the talk button and took another sip of the coffee before he remembered how bad it was. Grimacing again, he muttered, "Man, I have got to start bringin' my own Thermos…" He didn't want to guess why the Chef's coffee tasted like salmon.

***

Newsie was washing his hands in the men's restroom downstairs when he heard a gurgling noise. Oh, great, not a plumbing backup again! Worried, he turned to stare at the center floor drain; the last time the drain had backed up, Gonzo had fearlessly extended what he called the "plunger of doom" into the main sewer line beneath the theatre to unclog it, although several unexpected things had happened before the problem was actually fixed, not the least of which had been one of the sinks collapsing into a weird snake-themed drainpipe… Startled suddenly, Newsie felt a chill of danger. The sewer! That drain led directly there…and those noises sounded completely unfriendly!

Rushing out of the bathroom, he looked wildly around for help: the Chef had both hands and his hat full at the grill, the Mayhem were doing a tune-up jam so loudly they'd never hear him, Link and Strangepork were engaged in a discussion with a total stranger off in a corner. Spotting a group of rats standing around divvying up the spoils from the theatre's audience seats, Newsie tromped over to them. "You rats! Quick! We need to block off all the openings to the sewer and to any other underground access!"

The fattest rat glared up at him. "Why'd we wanna do dat, big mout'? Dem holes are handy!"

"Yeah, I found a pipeline running all da way to dat bakery on Ninth!" another rat claimed.

"Monsters are down there!" Newsie yelled over the band. "Aren't you the ones who ran out of the sewer to get away from things?"

The rats shifted uneasily. "Yeah, well, dat was den, dis is now," the fat one argued. "Ain't nuttin' happened since we moved in here! Trust me, mac, dose holes are poifectly safe!"

"Really?" Newsie scowled. "Go into the mens' room!"

"I'm good, thanks."

"There are sounds coming from the drain!"

The rats looked at each other, no one making a move, tails and noses twitching. "Come on, give me a hand –" Inspiration struck, and Newsie added, "or would you rather I tell Scooter when he returns how you guys have been raiding the concession stand after hours?"

"Dat's blackmail!" one of the rats squeaked angrily.

Another rat padded behind Newsie; he whirled. "What are you doing?"

"Checkin' for a tail. You t'ink like a rat."

"Move it! Find something to close off that drain!" Newsie yelled, and the rats trotted off, grumbling. Newsie ventured back into the restroom. The drain lay silent, and he quickly peeked under the stall doors to make sure nothing ugly was slithering out of the toilets. A handful of rats came in, lugging a large, flat circle of black iron. "I hope that's heavy enough," Newsie muttered as the rats, grunting, shoved it into place atop the drain.

"So do we, believe me," a rat grumped.

Ducking out of the restroom, Newsie saw the janitor ambling through the downstairs area, looking puzzled. "Beauregard! Can you bring a hammer? A really big one!" Newsie called to him.

Beau brightened, happy to have something useful to occupy himself with. "Check! Hammer time!"

One of the rats glared at another who was wobbling around, pretending to stretch his pants legs to the sides. "C'mon. Just don't."

Shortly Beau returned with a very large mallet. Newsie pointed at the iron thing over the drain. "Can you tap that down so it's secure?"

"Sure! Uh…why are we blocking the drain?" Beau asked.

"Because there are horrible things down there and I don't want them coming in here! Please, Beau, just tamp it down!" Newsie barked, and watched anxiously while the janitor, with a shrug, whacked the thing securely over the drain. Newsie gave it an experimental kick, and it didn't budge. "Good," he sighed, relieved. "Thanks, Beau. Can you find something to do the same thing in the ladies' room? And – and any other drains!"

Beau stared at him. "You want me to stop up all the drains?"

Frustrated, Newsie threw his hands over his head. "I wish we could! No…just…just anything bigger than a mousehole, okay? I don't want us overrun with monsters," he tried to explain.

Doglion stomped past, forcing everyone to dodge, involved in a heated discussion with Sweetums: "But I hate the way lotion sticks between my toes! I'm telling you, Gold Bond Powder is way better!"

Sweetums shook his shaggy head, wide lips flopping. "Nope, nope, nope. Powder won't soften your toepads like lotion does!"

Everyone stared after them. Rizzo shook his head in amazement. "First time I evah  
heard dat guy talk, and it's about foot powder!"

Newsie shivered, wishing his felt would dry out faster; he hadn't had time to warm up, simply pulling on a dry change of clothes and bolting from the KRAK studios to the Muppet Theatre. "Just block up as much as you can, okay, Beau?" he asked tiredly, and trudged toward the canteen to see if the Chef had anything warm to drink. Seems counterintuitive to worry about the small holes when there are giants stomping through here unfettered, he realized, but he didn't have the authority to banish them. Sensing something different in here tonight, he peered around, ignoring the dull pain trying to reassert itself right behind his weary eyes, and spotted a stranger sitting at one of the canteen tables, moving small pieces of gray material around on the tabletop while chatting with Sweetums and Robin. His natural curiosity roused, but then Sweetums let loose a belly laugh, and Newsie unconsciously backed away, all too aware of those huge hands and even bigger mouth…

The Chef's loud complaint startled the Newsman: "Nooo kin doo flopen-jacken! Foon de hur der griddle!"

Gladys gave an exasperated grunt. "Whaddaya mean ya don't have a griddle? It was right there! Well…use a pan or somethin'!"

"'Scuse me," Beau sang out, hurrying into the grill area and back out again carrying a shallow, flat iron skillet.

"No habben der pans!" Chef protested, waving his hands around at the larger pots and implements. "Nooo kin doo der flippen-floppen!"

"Well, what can ya make, then?" Gladys demanded.

The Chef scratched his head, then seized a large two-sided press. "Der wuffles!"

"Great, whatevah," Gladys sighed. To the pigs and chickens at table two, she yelled, "Change a'plans! You're now gettin' candied corn waffles instead of pancakes!"

The chickens clucked, shrugging. One of the pigs grumbled, "At least that's better than last week when he couldn't find the panini press…boiled cheese sandwich is really hard to pick up!"

Newsie heard hammering sounds on metal coming from the ladies' room, and relaxed a degree. Good. That's part of the theatre protected, at least. He reached the counter, ordered a coffee, and choked at his first sip. "Gahhh! What the hey! This coffee tastes like fish!"

"Der kaffe?" Chef asked, and Newsie shoved the cup back at him.

"Taste it! It's fishy!"

The Chef sipped the coffee, spluttered, and quickly checked the large tureen it had been poured from, coming up with a long, thin, pinkish fish. "Ooh! Ja, ja, ees der feltritten!"

"You filter your coffee through fish now?" Gladys wondered.

"Forget it!" Newsie coughed, angrily striding away from the counter to find a vacant spot to peruse the possible disappearing-people leads, wishing fervently his cell phone hadn't become soaked when all those water bottles bounced and splashed on him. He couldn't even call for takeout java at this rate, and the aspirin he'd swallowed earlier seemed to be wearing off. Grumpily he settled in a large armchair near the stairs and began reading the stack of printed emails.

"Fish in the coffee?" Rizzo wondered. "Dat's a little weird, even for da Chef."

"Sí okay, like what is with all the weird things back here tonights?" Pepe asked. "It's like we're in the middle of a telenovela or something!"

Rowlf shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it." He watched as the waitress glumly tossed the dripping fish into the trash. "After all, that's just a red herring."

***

Camilla sat alone in her dressing-coop, crowded next to the small TV that Beau had been kind enough to rig up for her. It had been clear to her that she was keeping the other chickens from performing, and like everyone else here, they loved being onstage, so tonight she'd insisted they go on without her. She huddled under a woven blanket as the game show about solvents finished (with only two contestants visibly scarred for life) and the MMN station logo came onscreen. Waiting anxiously while the logo animation ran (the letters becoming monsters which then ate the globe behind them), she hoped tonight's results show wouldn't involve any new feats of death-defying by her estranged weirdo. Below her, she could feel the floor rumbling with the pounding of dancing feet as the Muppet Show opening began, the music filtering faintly up through the back of the building. It was just as well that she was up here instead: since Gonzo had left, even going onstage didn't feel right to her.

"All right, maiming mavens and crippling connoisseurs! Tonight we tally your votes and compare them to the judges' scores, and determine who lives and who – er – goes home, heh heh – tonight, on Break a Leg!" the host shouted, grinning for the camera. The view swooped out to show seats full of cheering monsters. "Our panel tonight, as always: the implacable Beautiful Day, the bubbly Behemoth, and the apparently invisible Shakey Sanchez! I'm your host although I deeply wish I weren't, Snookie Blyer!" The cheers finally hushed as the lights dimmed. "Last night, we all saw some amazing and cranial-cracking acts on this stage – well, not this one, since they had to rebuild it – but Hem! Whom did you most favor last night out of all the stupendously stupid stalwarts we saw?"

Hem rolled his eyes toward the back of his head, thinking hard. "Hmmm…y'know, Snookie, I'd have to say I liked Ms Fatwah the best."

"But Jasmine Fatwah disqualified her—er, him-self by leaving the studio! That violated our strict imprisonm—I mean curfew, heh heh, for all the contestants!" Snookie pointed out, the smile never leaving his face. Camilla frowned. Why did show hosts always seem so fake?

"I-I kind of l-liked that Gonzo guy," a voice warbled from under Hem's fur.

"What!" Hem jerked upright, glaring at the small, red-feathered head poking up from a hole in his shoulder. "Well who cares what you think! Get back in there!"

"Shakey does have a vote," Snookie said mildly.

"Well you're both nuts!" B.D. snorted. "Obviously, that quick-draw snail is gonna go all the way!"

"Well, let's take a look at the acts again!" Snookie continued a voiceover as footage from the previous show played: "First, that mistress of mayhem Jasmine Fatwah danced with death and one truly provocative scimitar, but left the stage without completing her performance when she received a little unexpected assistance from one of the crew!" The fluffy pink three-eyed monster planted one heck of a smacker on the exotic dancer's furry lips, and she (or he) ran screaming offstage, leaving the monster wobbling confusedly under the weight of the sword through his skull. Camilla shook her head. Amateurs.

"Next, the fabulous fungus Mungus Mumfrey barely escaped disqualification by repeating its earlier routine with flamethrowers; the judges decided there was just enough variation in this performance to allow it, but tonight we'll find out what our audience thinks! Should the world's only mobile fungus go big or go home?" A few seconds of the surging goop flailing around in a mesmerizing dance whilst continually flaming itself and then glopping over the damage had Camilla wishing she'd skipped dinner. "And just when we thought we'd seen enough crashes and burns, along came the Great Gonzo to prove us wrong!"

"Bawwk!" Camilla gulped, wincing all over again at the film of Gonzo shrieking and crashing into the pile of exploding props.

"Yes, he certainly brought the house down – or tried to, anyway!" Snookie chuckled while the studio audience howled with laughter at the sight of the giant screen crashing down atop Shakey Sanchez and Gonzo. "But his astounding survival places him close to the top of most people's list, or at least the Darwin Awards list. Next up we heard an earsplitting performance by Jimmy Joe Bob…" Snookie visibly cringed at the recorded sound of the stunt-karaoke singer groaning "Peelings, nuthin' more than peeeelings…" Snookie ducked as several audience members hurled shoes and beer bottles at the stage. "Hey! Guys, guys, that was a recording from last night!" Shaken, he emerged from behind B.D.'s chair as the scruffy blue monster scowled and hurled a couple of shoes back into the audience; thumps and cries of ow! could plainly be heard. "So…after the medics carted the whomped warbler offstage, the trick-shooter Wyatt Slurp showed us his skills with a six-shooter and a whole host of expendable crew members!"

The snail, even in extreme slo-mo, hardly seemed to move, but his guns fired off numerous shots in rapid succession, bringing a row of heavy lights down one by one directly onto a line of stunned Frackles; then as they wavered, the second round of shots knocked them all into one another. They fell into a pile of artfully arranged furry bodies which, when viewed by the overhead camera, spelled out the initial 'W'. Camilla shook her head; how did that even qualify as daring? Nice shooting, perhaps, but hardly dangerous!

"Then we had some mixing it up, old school, as John Lamb took on a horde of sucke—er, volunteers from our audience!" Onscreen, the baaaad sheep was a flurry of kicking hooves and cracking skulls, and with every solid whack of his horned head against one of the monsters rushing him, fur and scales and felt went down, never wool. "Heh, heh, looks like someone brought a claw to a horn fight! Lamb showed everyone that some things do get better with age, even if there is a little gray under that black wool!"

"I know you ain't calling me old, greasehead," a deep voice growled from somewhere behind Snookie.

"Erk! Ah, heh, um…then finally, the world's most dangerous mouse, Montrose, showed us…er…" Snookie paused, frowning at his cue card, then at the camera. "Does anyone remember what exactly Montrose did?"

"He was amazing!" Hem exclaimed, looking a little dazed. "He spun and weaved! He did car chases while hanging out the back window with an Uzi!"

Snookie gave the judge a startled look. "He did?"

Camilla cocked her head to one side, thinking. No, she definitely did not recall any car chases! In fact, all she'd seen the mouse do on-camera was…sort of stand there…and wave his paws while he swayed back and forth and chanted. She'd thought it was some kind of Far Eastern entertainment bit, not an actual entry in the show. B.D. corrected Hem, "Nuh-uh! He fought off a whole army of vicious Sandinista cats using only the tip of his tail while biting himself free of rubber ropes!"

"Y-you guys are blind!" Shakey insisted, popping out of Hem's throat, shaking his head a little more than the rest of him. "He threw a whole bucketful of poison-tipped d-darts into the air and then dodged every single o-one of them!"

"O-kay," Snookie said, puzzled. "Well, it seems the judges can't agree on what exactly the mouse did last night, but I guess he's still in!" He suddenly noticed the little white mouse sitting at his feet, swinging a pocketwatch back and forth. "What are you doing, trying to time my intro?"

The mouse frowned. "Dang it. You're not a monster! This only works on monsters…" He sighed. "Fine. Just don't say nothin', okay pal?" Snookie stared at him, speechless, as the little rodent scampered backstage.

"Uh. Stay tuned! We'll get this contest underway again in just under two minutes after this word from our sponsor, ZikZak snack cakes - assuming your brain hasn't exploded by then. It's extermination time, on Break a Leg! Be right back." The feed cut from the host's somewhat strained smile to a flurry of ads; Camilla looked away, sighing, and tilted her neck from side to side to unkink it. She always tensed up when stressed.

Would the contestants reprise their acts, or would they just stand around and wait for the results of the show? Would there be a musical number? She wasn't even sure how long tonight's episode was supposed to be. She took a drink of Blueberry Grasshopper Mega Energy Boost, knowing the stress must be depleting her badly. Why, oh why, wouldn't Gonzo answer his phone? She'd left two more messages on his voicemail, but no return call had come to reassure her. Was he even thinking of her anymore? She sighed, the memory of the enormous flatscreen smashing down on Gonzo flashing through her head. At this point, she couldn't even be sure he was thinking.

***


	22. Chapter 21-2

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (part 2). _In which Piggy is poisoned (briefly); Newsie is stunned (deeply); and Martians disrupt the Muppet Show (utterly)._

Miss Piggy sat in a lovely Victorian tea-dress in an ornately carved chair, sipping delicately from a china cup in the mock-up of a dark, gloomy parlor. "Oh, how dreary today is!" she said, tossing back the pretty little feathered cap pinned in her thick hair. She wasn't sure this piece was as much drama as melodrama, but at least the costume was gorgeous. She crossed one ankle demurely over the other, showing off the gleaming buttons on her high boots. The bustier displayed her substantial décolletage, though the long dress of dark green satin, with many fripperies and ruffles, hid enough of her to convincingly bring off the modest Victorian lady character. "Oh, how I wish that awful Drake Isingbreath would leave me alone while my darling Hector is off keeping the tea plantation safe from tigers!" With a heavy sigh, she took another sip of the tea, and frowned. "Yeesh. What the heck is this stuff, infusion of chimney soot?"

A tremulous thrill of music announced the entrance of the villain. "So, Benjamina! Have you received my latest offer?" a deep voice demanded; Piggy, acting startled, really did do a double-take when she rose, turned, and found Uncle Deadly in a black tails-coat and stovepipe hat, leering at her.

"Oh, cripes. Not this again," Piggy muttered, then reconsidered: she wasn't dangling off a cliff, nor was she tied to a train track. Regaining her composure swiftly, she went into a horrified recoil, bringing a huge fan up to block Deadly's advance. "Oh! No! Isingbreath! Leave this house! My man had strict instructions not to even receive your cards, much less allow you inside! Jeeves, oh, Jeeves!" Desperately, the damsel in distress looked toward the door upstage. "Oh, where is that butler?"

"Mwah, ha, ha! He's where no one will ever find him – unless they happen to look into the abandoned well!" Deadly chortled, rubbing his scaly hands together.

"Oh! You fiend!" Piggy cried.

"Now, my dear, I will ask you one last time: will you marry me?" Deadly queried, holding out one clawed hand.

Piggy waved the fan ineffectually at him. "Never! Oh! Oh, I wish my dear fiancé wasn't in far-off India! Get away from me, you foul man!"

"Ah, perhaps you'd better sit down, my dear," Deadly crooned, coming closer step by menacing step. "Are you feeling a little…dizzy?"

"Why, I –" Piggy paused, realized she actually didn't feel well, and struggled with the next line: "You – what have you done?"

"Not only have I shanghaied your butler, but I've slipped a deadly venom into that dark, dusty tea, my dear!" Deadly chuckled. "I just happen to have the antidote right here –" He produced a small crystal vial from a pocket. "—but unless you agree to be my wife, you shall never taste a drop of it, and within minutes you shall succumb to the horrible poison running through your veins!"

"You what?" Piggy snarled, abandoning the script. "You actually put poison in my tea? You idiot! This was supposed to be just a sketch! When I get my hands on you, you scrawny blue jerk –" She lunged at the dragon, but she overbalanced and slumped onto the stage. "Ohhh…ohh I don't believe this!"

The door burst open. "Never fear, my darling! I have returned!" Wayne shouted, running in.

"Oh wonderful," Piggy groaned, then struggled to get back in character in the hopes this might actually end well for once. "I mean, oh! Hector! Save me, I've been poisoned!"

"Yes, that's right, I, Hector the Hero, am back from deepest India, where I've been fighting off tigers and tea-poachers, keeping Daddy's commercial ventures safe!" He turned to Deadly. "You, cruel fiend! Hand over that antidote!"

"Never!" Deadly growled, and the two foes circled one another while Piggy gasped and tried unsuccessfully to haul herself into the chair.

"Faster would be nice," she grumbled. "Ooh my head…"

"You awful monster, putting deadly venom in my betrothed's afternoon sherry!" Wayne cried, but Deadly paused, holding up a corrective finger.

"No, no, old chap; I put it in her tea."

"What?" Wayne checked a pocketwatch. "But it's five o'clock! Tea is over; it's time for sherry!"

Deadly shrugged. "Well, naturally! But that's not what the script says…"

In the stage right wing, Clifford groaned and put his head on the desk. The frog was going to let him have it about this one…assuming he lived past what Piggy would do…

Wayne stopped circling too, and asked curiously, "Tell me, do you prefer cream sherry or tawny port?"

"Oh, well," Deadly murmured, warming to the topic, "I always drank palo cortado, but I suppose cream sherry would have been more appropriate here."

"You think?"

"Well, it is more ladylike."

"No, no! She's not ladylike enough for that!" Wayne proclaimed. "I say, let's go with a good strong port!"

"Hey, you freaks, gimme that antidote already!" Piggy yelled.

"Well, any port in a storm," Deadly chuckled.

Wayne looked out the painted windows at the painted clouds. "Hmm. It does look like a storm's coming…"

"You better believe there is!" Piggy howled, hoisting herself up and taking a wild swing at Wayne. "Hiii—YAAAHH!" The chop missed, Wayne stumbled into Deadly, and the three of them went down in a heap as the curtain closed.

Clifford urged Fozzie out front as he ran to check on Piggy. "Go! Go! –Piggy, you okay?"

"Raaagghh!" Piggy screamed, launching herself after Deadly; with a smirk, he simply vanished, and the pig crashed down on top of the clueless actor instead. She grabbed the tiny vial and chugged it; Wayne, recovering at least some sense, made a break for the stage left exit, but a gloved hand caught his foot and he tumbled. "Cream sherry?" Piggy roared as the actor cringed. "Cream this!"

Piggy must have still been out of sorts, because her kick missed as well. "Ho, ho!" Wayne laughed, picking himself off the stage and enjoying a moment of smugness before a large Muppet tiger appeared out of nowhere and, snarling, bore the thespian to the floor.

Countie felt the unmistakable chill of his host next to him, and leaned over to whisper, "You didn't really poison Piggy, did you?"

"Merely a drop of twilight hemlock," Deadly murmured in reply, the two of them far back enough in the wing for the angry pig not to see them as she staggered up to her dressing-room. "The dizziness should wear off shortly…however, it does carry the unfortunate side effect of making one rather sparkly for a day or two, in direct sunlight."

Countie stifled a snicker. "Uh, she might like that."

Nervously adjusting his floppy tie, Fozzie tried to ignore the shrieking and crunching sounds behind the curtain. "Wocka-wocka-wocka! Heeeey folks, it's wonderful to see you all!"

"Wish we could return the sentiment!" Statler yelled down.

"Did you keep the receipt?" Waldorf quipped. "Oh ho, ho, ho!" And they were off to a running gag.

The Newsman sighed, pausing to massage his forehead after rejecting the twenty-sixth useless "lead" in the stack. Should've grabbed dinner; somehow the headache is even worse on an empty stomach, he thought unhappily. He hoped Gina would have something comforting in the kitchen when he arrived home later. He hadn't spotted her in the audience when he'd done his bit in the arches earlier, so she must've had to work late. He polished his glasses and settled them back on his nose, bringing the next poorly spelled email into focus: "So liek I wuz hangin w/my pepps by the back dorr of Scrumbly's on 10 St and we all saw a guy go in to the suwer! And we were there over an hr and he dint come back out! Yu shld investergat!"

"Do schools not teach grammar anymore?" Newsie muttered. Over half of the ones he'd read thus far sported similar atrocities, and trying to translate them wasn't helping his headache in the least.

"Sure, man! They'll teach grammars or grandpers or anyone who can afford continuin' edumacation!" Floyd Pepper cackled, strolling up the stairs behind Janice with his bass guitar in hand. Zoot laughed dryly, then looked confused, but followed his bandmate up. Lips shook his head, smiling, and patted Newsie's shoulder as he went.

"Funny," Newsie grumbled. He heard deep voices nearby, and turned to see the Mutations just a table away, conversing among themselves. One of them glanced over, saw Newsie, and very pointedly turned his chair so his back was to the Muppet. Newsie ducked his head, at first embarrassed, then wondered what was so private; he dared glances at the tall monsters while they continued to mutter to one another. One of them said something, and all three of them looked the Newsman's way; then they all laughed.

Newsie's long cheeks flamed. Were they saying mean things about him? Or…or was it worse than that? He glared suspiciously at them, suddenly unable to recall seeing them around for a while. Kermit had reinstated the arches opening for the show a couple of months back by popular demand, but since then, Newsie had only seen the trio of lanky purple monsters a handful of times in their designated positions on the bottom tier. Where had they been? Have to ask Scooter, he decided. Maybe stopping the drains is the wrong approach – maybe a complete monster ban should be instated! Uncomfortably, he edged back in his chair, lifting the stack of papers like a shield between himself and the table of monsters. His gaze flicked from them to Doglion, who was playing with the small gray things on the back table where that stranger had been sitting before the show. Who was that guy, and what had he brought that would interest a shaggy-brained monster? The Newsman badly wanted some answers, but didn't dare approach the table while the huge-pawed beast sat there. Nervous, he huddled behind his flimsy papers, ears straining to catch anything from the unintelligible discussion nearby while his eyes stayed fixed on the table across the room, waiting, feeling very, very vulnerable.

Two-thirds of the band stepped into place onstage; Floyd shoved a half-splatted tomato out of the way with his boot. He looked at the others, and when Janice nodded, he turned to Zoot. The lights shifted to a dusky, dreamy blue with violet edges, and Zoot launched into the haunting sax intro to the swing classic, Floyd plucking the bassline softly while Janice strummed the rhythm.

"Slow drag," Floyd sang raspily, "It sure is draggin' me down…I'm almost hangin' the ground, when I hear that blue drag." Janice gave him a bit of melody. "And slow drag…it's got that new lazy swing; I crave that new crazy swing, I must have that blue drag!"

The lights grew more purple as Floyd swayed a bit, getting into the feel of the song. "Now the rhythm, that rhythm has brought me peculiar days…ohhh, the rhythm, that rhythm has brought me peculiar days, can't get enough of blue drag! Oh, it's got my soul on fire; I know that I'll never tire, of that low dowwwwn, blue drag."

Lips raised his trumpet and joined in for a long solo, rambling soulfully over the continued, relentless strumming Janice laid down. Zoot picked up where Lips left off, carrying the melody higher. Floyd shook his head, smiling, happily plucking along.

Off stage left, Thog came through the door to the tunnel and up the short steps to the stage level, then abruptly stopped. "Oh, gee," he muttered. "I'm on the wrong side! How'd that happen?" Uneasily, he waddled back down, but the door seemed either locked or stuck. "Hey, the door won't open!" he told the stagepig manning the flyrail, but the pig shushed him angrily. "Can't you just come unlock this?" Thog asked, and the lighting board pig joined the flypig in a loud Shhhh!

Sighing, Thog looked out at the musicians onstage. He enjoyed the music, but he knew he was really supposed to be stage right to join the next act; Clifford had agreed he could be in "At the Dance," and Thog really didn't want to mess up his entrance – he even had one of the jokes to deliver! Worried, he studied the stage, noting a little space between the backdrop and the back wall. If he moved really, really carefully, he might be able to squeeze through there…

"Slow drag…it sure is draggin' me down," Floyd sang, repeating the verse, enjoying the simple swing of the tune. Thog reached the midway point and hesitated; one of the lights was out back here, and he couldn't see his next step! He wavered, uncertain, then realized if he didn't get across, he wouldn't be ready for his cue, and he'd miss his opportunity to be in the sketch! Frightened, he plowed ahead. His foot snagged on the bottom of the cyc; panicked, he pulled hard, and the taut curtain tore. Another heavy plod, and the cable powering the lower lights for the cyc caught a toe – and that in turn lifted the sound cable to Floyd's bass, run perpendicular to the electrics.

As Floyd sang, "I must have that blue drag!" the bass ripped out of his arms. "What the -?" Janice looked over, startled, when her lover was tripped by his own suddenly moving sound cable and dragged offstage. Thog was fully visible to everyone as the entire cyc tore free of its rigging and flapped after the huge blue beast like a bridal train. Lips shrugged, his horn blaring out the end of the song a couple of phrases early; Zoot stared in surprise at all the commotion; the audience hooted and clapped.

Clifford smacked a hand over his face as Thog ran by at a fast lumber, with a torn curtain, sparking cables, bumping lights, and a protesting musician all hauled along after. "Oh, man," he groaned. "I sure hope Kermit don't hear about this."

Rizzo chortled, snacking on a Mars bar on the top of the desk. "Twenny bucks, and my lips are sealed!"

Clifford just glared at the rat. Pepe tugged his elbow. "So, I can do my romantic solo now, sí?"

"No!" Cliff barked, and yelled into the 'com: "Rowlf! Rowlf, I need you up here, man! Let's do your poem!"

Zoot wandered offstage. "Is the song over?" he wondered.

Clifford stared at him, then pushed the 'com button again. "Rowlf!" Seeing Deadly's guest sitting attentively on one of the crates backstage, he sighed. "Oh, man. I wish you'd dropped in on some other night! I'm sorry your first live Muppet Show is going this way," he apologized, but Countie shook his head, smiling.

"Actually, it's pretty much what I expected. I'm enjoying it!"

Fozzie gave Clifford a hopeful look. "Hey, at least it's going better dan Tuesday…"

The host called out the percentages of accolades each contestant had received during the viewer voting, and spotlights turned on each of them as their names came up. Camilla watched, wringing her wingtips; thus far, it had been a lot of buildup but no dangerous acts. She hoped the next show would be as tame, though she knew odds were high against it. She felt a flutter of pride when Gonzo's cannon-fueled disaster earned him almost forty per cent of the votes, and he pumped his hands at the audience in a triumphant gesture, beaming from one side of his curly nose to the other. Realizing if people liked his act too much, he'd stay on the show and keep doing it, Camilla sank back into a sick despair. How could she vote for him to continue, when all she wanted now was for him to come home, back to the theatre? But what if he did? She couldn't just peck and make up…that wouldn't teach him anything!

She was further dismayed when the host announced, "On Saturday's show, the remaining masters of microcephalia will be required to theme their acts! Every contestant must use two things chosen by our judges in their performance! And those items aaaare…" Snookie glanced at a cue card a Frackle ran up to hand him. His smile faltered an instant. "Cinnamon red hot candies – and hydrochloric acid!"

"Bawwwk!" Camilla moaned, feeling ill. Red hots! WHY did it have to be red hots!

"Let's say farewell to Jimmy Joe Bob, and sing him to his final res—resplendent performance! Sorry Jimmy, your dulcet tones simply didn't win over our judges – and it seems not enough of our audience is hard of hearing for you to continue!" Snookie said, ducking as a size eleventy-four steel-toed boot sailed out of the crowd and beaned the rustic.

"But hey, let's give him something to remember this show by!" B.D. yelled. The studio audience roared approval…and a hail of shoes, bottles, rocks, and one large enameled kitchen sink pummeled the unfortunate contestant. Snookie shook his head as a black-robed figure followed the goblins dragging the pile of stuff offstage.

"So, tune in next time and see who's left breathing on another episode of – Break a Leg! For MMN, I'm Snookie Blyer, and I hope to see you all here – and me there – Saturday night! So long!" The host's expression seemed gloomy as the credits rolled. Camilla heaved a sigh, clicking the set off.

Two contestants eliminated, but her daredevil was still in the running; moreso, he seemed to be at the top of the board! Torn between wanting Gonzo to be voted off and feeling proud at seeing that happy, goofy smile of his when the results were announced, the chicken groaned and flopped down in her bed of straw. She adored him, but how could she make him realize he didn't need to suffer quite so much for his art – or to make her suffer, having to wonder every show whether he would live 'til the end of it?

The newswire ticked and chunked and spat out a sheet of copy. Great, Newsie thought, grabbing it from the wire and forcing his feet up the stairs to the stage level. When he headed for Clifford, the interim host stopped Rowlf with a hand on the dog's shoulder. "Uh…dang. Hold that thought, Rowlf. News set!" he called out, and the stagepigs, grunting, shoved the desk onstage. Nodding unhappily at Clifford, Newsie ran out, nervous energy making up for a lack of enthusiasm.

"Here is a Muppet News Flash!" he barked, glancing at the sheet in his hand. "The famous Muppet Pumpkin Cannon competition is underway this week in Crackerville, West Virginia! Competitors will attempt to shoot pumpkins the greatest distance using homemade explosive contraptions. The record to beat is held by Japheth and Trey, Jr, Bumblefoot, who last year reportedly shot a forty-pound pumpkin across two state lines into Tennessee –"

He must've been too distracted by the headache; he never heard the sickening whoosh of air which usually preceded things falling on him. In pain, half-conscious, his blurry vision barely took in the two yokels trotting across the stage to examine the splattered orange squash. "Hah! Still unbeaten!" one of them crowed.

The other shook his head. "Yeah, but what'd I tell you now about pointin' th' danged thing south? You know New Yorkers ain't never impressed by nothin'! This shoulda hit Barnard's chicken coop in Memphis!"

"I done told you I warn't no good at that compass thing," the first one grumped.

Newsie groaned. What was left of the pumpkin echoed weakly, "Think you got problems?"

Then both of them passed out.

Countie was mildly concerned when Beauregard tromped offstage with the Newsman and the pumpkin in a wheelbarrow, the two rural-sounding Muppets arguing about wind direction and gunpowder amounts trailing in his wake, but then Rowlf went onstage and tried to give a recitation of something he titled "It's a Dog's World" but which seemed to be more and more loudly interrupted by yowling, spitting cats until the dog couldn't stand it anymore; loud barking and hissing signaled the end of the piece. "Pardon me, my friend, but I'm in the closing number," Deadly said.

"Break a leg," Countie replied, and Deadly chuckled.

"I'd rather someone else did! Ha, ha! We'll mingle a bit and then join the cast for cream sodas at a tavern, shall we?"

"Sounds perfect," Countie said, beaming. He felt the chill dissipate and knew the ghost had gone onstage. Although he was disappointed at not having met Kermit or Scooter and having missed the chance to speak to Gonzo, the rest of his visit had gone wonderfully; the Muppet Show was everything he'd hoped for, and he was having the best time just listening to the chaos.

"Please, please, just do the last one right," Clifford muttered, and handed off his headset to a penguin. "Don't call for curtain until everyone bows, got that?"

"Merk merk," the penguin agreed, and Clifford swiftly donned the dark red cardigan and scarf for his costume in the final act of the night before running to his mark onstage. He signaled the flypigs; as the maindrape opened again, the band began playing the old standby, and a crescent-moon cutout slowly lowered, with Miss Piggy seated in its cusp. Piggy smiled and blew kisses at the growing number of male Muppets on the stage. Fake fall leaves blew across, and several of the boys, wrapped in autumn jackets, pretended to shiver.

The male chorus of Deadly, Fozzie, Beaker, Link, Wayne, Rizzo, Pepe, and some understudy frogs and hogs sang out: "Shine on harvest moon… January, February, June or July; I said January, February, June or July, shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky!"

Countie smiled, able to pick out individual voices in the nonetheless pleasant harmony, especially one which meeped. Clifford stepped downstage, addressing first Piggy, who looked down on him kindly, then his fellow singers: "I ain't had no lovin' since January, February, June or July!"

"Ah, ah, ahaaa…" sang the others.

"Snow time ain't no time to sit outdoors and spoon," Clifford continued, mock-shivering, then singing up to Piggy once more, "So shine on, shine on harvest moon –"

"For me and my gal!" Rowlf chimed in, putting out an arm to welcome one of the ladies now sashaying slowly out from the wings. The chickens, a sheep, and some Whatnot girls giggled demurely and each chose a boy to stand by.

The whole ensemble harmonized: "So shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky! I ain't had no lovin' since January, February, June or July!"

"Now looka here, don't you know better than to sit out there in the snow and spoon?" Clifford scolded, and beseeched Piggy, "Come on, I don't want no half-moon, I want a full moon!"

"Oh won't you shine on, shine on harvest moon…" the others sang, while Piggy slowly opened her arms, gently hanging onto the edge of the moon cutout and showing off her spectacular silvery leotard with shimmering moondust drifting onto the singers from her hands.

"Ah-ooba, ah-ooba…" the men sang, while the ladies cooed in tune, snuggling with them. Everyone was paired up except for Clifford, who turned to the audience.

"Doncha know you're gonna freeze to death, settin' out there in the snow tryin' to spoon?" He shook his head sadly, though whether at the thought of lovers freezing in the snow or because he had no partner was unclear.

Everyone together, as Piggy swang slowly back and forth, the moon dispensing magic over all: "So shine on, shine on harvest moon, for me and my gal!"

The crowd applauded, the singers bowed, the curtains stayed open. Clifford kept smiling for the audience, but looked sharply into the stage left wing where the flypigs seemed to be cringing away from what looked like a couple of moving throw rugs in bright blue and pink chenille. Clifford glanced back at the penguin stage right, who threw up its flippers in a "What? I'm trying!" gesture. Deadly led the cast in another bow, and another, and the applause continued, but Clifford hastily worked his way across to the flyrail.

"What the Jelly Roll Morton are you two doing? Close the drapes already!" he ordered.

"Th-they won't let us!" one of the pigs stammered, pointing at the strange creatures swarming the rail of levers for the various lines over the stage. Clifford saw the googly eyes and quirked antennae then, and jerked back himself, startled.

"Hey! You two…whatever you ares! Get away from there!" he yelled, waving a hand at them. He suddenly wondered what he would do if they turned on him, but they only zipped in between the lines of cables faster, making odd groans and yips. "Stop that! Shoo!"

"Shoe?" the pink thing asked.

"Mn. Shoe. Yip yip yip, shoe!"

They abandoned the flyrail to glomp onto Clifford's shoes. "Hey!" he cried, dancing in place, trying to shake them loose; they held on with sticky tentacles. He kept kicking, jumping, and heard laughter. What—? Oh, no! He'd danced the funky chicken right back onto the stage, and the curtain hung open! "Close it!" he yelled, and the flypigs, regaining some of their senses, hurriedly closed the drapes. The claps and laughs continued, but Clifford was far from amused. "Get these danged things off me!" Surprised Muppets surrounded him, but for a second no one moved.

Then Link panicked. "Aliens! Weird space monsters! We're being invaded!" Wailing, he fled the stage.

"Every Muppet for himself!" Wayne choked, diving for the exit.

"Aaagh!" Wanda shrieked as the blue thing let go of Clifford's shoe and swooped up to investigate her hair. Gallantly Rowlf swatted at it, but the thing quickly zipped out of harm's way with strange, jerky movements.

"Somebody call monster control!" Cliff yelled.

"Why don't we go collect your autograph bits, and see who's left to join for an actor's supper?" Deadly suggested to Countie.

"Well…I guess there are safer places to be at the moment," Countie agreed reluctantly. He'd been enjoying the sound of another raucous end to the show.

"Safer, no. Quieter, yes," Deadly said, leading his friend down to the green room.

Clifford spotted Robin watching the headless-chicken imitations going on with a fascinated expression. "Hey, little man, you'd best go downstairs," Clifford called to him. "And do me a favor: don't tell your uncle about this!"

"Oh, it's okay," the peeper piped up, "You're doing a swell job! This is just like when Uncle Kermit is here!"

"Great," Clifford sighed. "Least I got something right."

Groggy, the Newsman nevertheless jumped when he felt a hand on his arm. "You all right?" a voice asked.

He blinked up at the unknown man with dark glasses and curly brown hair. "Uh…fine. Thanks." A replacement pair of glasses sat on Newsie's nose, although that was feeling very out of joint, and all he could smell was fresh pumpkin goop…though a shower might fix that.

"I realize this might not be the best time," the stranger said, "but would you sign your autograph for me?"

"My…my autograph?" Newsie couldn't recall anyone ever asking him for that. Noting the cane as well as the shades, he asked, "Uh…do you know who I am?"

"The Newsman," the stranger said, smiling. "Would you mind?"

Pleasantly puzzled, Newsie followed the man to the back table. Numerous pieces of clay were spread out: one side of the table held pieces with Muppets' names inscribed, the other held a few blanks. "I'd like to get as complete a collection as possible," the man explained. He frowned. "I'm sorry I missed Kermit and Scooter – and Gonzo – but Deadly's promised to try and get their signatures and mail them to me, since I have to leave tomorrow."

"Oh," Newsie said, grasping the concept as he looked at the tablets. He saw that Sweetums had smushed together four pieces just to scrawl his name with those huge fingers…and that Robin's took up only half a tablet. "That's…that's very clever! Certainly I'd be happy to add my name to your project, Mr…?"

"Countie. I'm actually supposed to be at a law seminar, so I'm not telling anyone my name," the man said, grinning mischievously.

Newsie was amazed. "You're a lawyer? You…you skipped a seminar just to come see our show?"

"Absolutely," Countie laughed, and his fingers located a blank piece of clay. He unwrapped it and pushed it toward Newsie. "You guys are my favorites! I grew up watching you…meeting you all has been a dream come true!"

Newsie thought it was more like a fever-dream, but carefully cut his professional name into the clay. It felt odd to see it written like that, knowing that once it dried, it could last a very long time. He felt old suddenly. Trying to shake it off, he looked over the signatures Countie had compiled thus far. Some obscure folks were represented along with the regulars: Big Mama, Thog, Carrie Louise, Sal Minella, Snookie Blyer, Lunch Counter Monster – Geez, why does he have so many monster signatures? I haven't even seen half of them arou—Newsie nearly swooned. He choked, grabbing the back of a chair, and sat down hard on another.

Concerned, Countie began, "What's wrong? Are you—"

"Where did you get that signature?" Newsie cried hoarsely, startling the guest.

"Which—"

"Snookie! Snookie Blyer! Where did you find him?"

"He – he was hosting a show I saw last night," Countie said, unnerved by the harshness of the Muppet's voice; he would have been even more uneasy at the sight of yellow felt turning creamy-pale. Newsie's hands clenched into fists on the table, shaking.

"Where? Where?"

"Uh…I…I'm not sure," Countie replied. "Underground somewhere! You can ask Deadly; he knew the show director!" He listened to what sounded like the Newsman gulping back tears, gasping for breath. "Why? Is he some kind of blood enemy of yours or something?" He knew Muppet passions tended to run high, but he'd never suspected the buttoned-down Newsman might have a feud with anyone else…

"He's my cousin!" Newsie shouted. "I've – I've been trying to find him for months! Where was this? What show? Underground? Where?" Suddenly he jerked upright, eyes wide. "Underground – with monsters? Why do you have so many monster signatures?"

"Uh…there were a few of them down there. I think some of them worked there," Countie said, very worried now at the obvious sounds of distress: the Muppet sounded like he was strangling.

"Snookie is down there? With those things?" Newsie choked out, horrified.

Deadly stepped up, having heard the commotion, annoyed at being dragged away from the charming talk he was having with that Doglion fellow about palo cortado versus amontillado for burying with enemies. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Agh!" Newsie cringed away from the spook, then jabbed an accusing finger at him. "You – you're all in league! I was right! Where is he? Where is he, d—it!"

Deadly looked at Countie, who seemed to know a confused chilly glance when he felt one. "I have no idea; something about his cousin?"

"Snookie Blyer! Where is he?" Newsie shouted, leaning toward Uncle Deadly, but then the dragon made an imperious lunge at the reporter. "Ack! Don't touch me!"

"You started it!" Deadly growled. "What is this nonsense?"

"Tell me!" Newsie demanded. "Snookie – where is he? This man has his signature! You took him to a show! Where was it?"

"You're making absolutely no sense!" Deadly huffed. "I don't know any Snookies! I took my dear friend to see another old friend of mine, a famous Collinswood director!"

"Apparently the show host is the Newsman's cousin," Countie offered.

"What, that pathetic plaid perpetrator of…of fake smiles?" Deadly scoffed. He glared at their startled expressions. "What? This is all off the cuff, you know! Can you think of a good word starting with P?"

"You have to tell me where he is!" Newsie insisted, his voice rough, feeling close to collapse, the shock of this right after the clobbering pumpkin too much to Muppetly bear. "You – you monsters! Skulking around here, laughing at us, plotting your plots! I was right! You're all in on it, whatever it is!"

Deadly drew himself up, eyes afire with cold blue light. "I have no idea of what you speak! I am a respectable ghoul, and you, sir, are out of line! Come, Countie, let's be off!"

"N-no," Newsie gulped, his knees shaking, clinging to the chair. "You have to tell me! He's my cousin, and if he's down there with all the monsters… No! Tell me! Where is he?"

Countie winced; he'd never heard the reporter sound so close to meltdown, not even when being attacked by a mad English comic. "Deadly, maybe we should –"

"I will not be spoken to in that tone!" the dragon roared, blowing the Newsman back with the force of his anger. He swept all the clay pieces into his cape, grabbed Countie by one hand, and dragged him away.

Newsie, struggling both to keep from openly crying and to get back to his feet, heard an all-too-familiar sound right next to him: "Mn. Yip. Yip yip."

His head jerked up. Both creatures hovered in the air on either side of him. The blue one began chanting in its frightening monotone: "Newwws. News. Yip yip yip yip yip uh huh."

"Yip yip, uh huh. News," the pink one chimed in, wriggling closer.

Newsie launched himself up and forward. The motion was too much for his injured head to take; darkness swirled up, a rushing noise filled his ears, and down he went.

"Ulp!" the pink monster cried, disturbed by this unsettling development. "Nooooope nope nope nope!"

"Uh uh, uh uh!" the blue one agreed, and together they vanished.


	23. Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. _In which Thatch McGurk is reminded of his duty; and a snack cake company is rather catty._

Soft candlelight was gentle to his tired eyes; the Newsman blinked several times, finally realizing the world wasn't coming into focus because he wasn't wearing his glasses. Soft strokes along his cheek made him sigh and turn his gaze that direction. Gina smiled at him. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

He squinted, figuring out he was in their apartment by the feel of the quilt beneath his hands. Pillows propped up his shoulders. "I…oooh," he groaned, throbbing pain smacking into his head before he could formulate a reply.

Gina grimaced. "My poor cutie. I knew you weren't over that cold fully yet."

"What happened?" he croaked.

She sighed, snuggling over double, bringing her face closer to his so he could make out her features if he peered hard enough. "Well, Clifford called me. I took a cab over to your theatre and Sweetums brought you up. You were out cold, sweetie." She brushed a hand lightly over his brow. "You feel feverish to me. Clifford said you fainted in the green room…and that you got clobbered by a pumpkin just before that." She kissed the edge of his nose. "And something about bottled water?"

That part he remembered. "Ungh…news story…those things really are bad for the environment. Mine, at least…"

Gina studied him carefully, looking deep into those almost-closed dark eyes. "Do you remember getting hit by a pumpkin?"

He tried. "I guess that's what I'm smelling."

"Yep." She fished a seed out of his hair. "I didn't want to put you in the tub unconscious. Feel like tackling it now?"

"Wait…I fainted? After the pumpkin?"

"That's what Clifford said. Apparently you were having some sort of argument in the green room with some visitor, and you got overexcited, and down you went." Newsie racked his memory, uneasily certain there was more to it, but unable to remember any of this. Gina stroked her fingertips across his forehead. "I'm prescribing bed rest, and no arguments. You weren't ready for the stress yet, I'm thinking."

"Why was I arguing with a visitor?"

"I don't know. Cliff said everyone else was onstage dealing with something. At least this time there weren't any explosions." She smiled. "Come on, cutie. Can you stand up?"

Frowning, Newsie wriggled himself to the edge of the bed and tried to sit up straight and put his feet on the floor; he noticed Gina had removed his shoes. Even that much movement caused his headache to intensify. Holding Gina's hand, he staggered to the bathroom and silently accepted her aid in undressing; he sat unhappily in the tub while she ran the water for him, and didn't fuss at the lavender-scented bath oil she added in. She fetched him ibuprofen and a glass of cool water while he listlessly washed the pumpkin goop from his hair. When finally he felt clean, if no better otherwise, she helped him climb out of the tub and wrapped him in a plush robe that came down to his ankles. Sitting in bed again soon after, he tried to recall anything else about the evening, and when Gina reentered bearing a tray with veggie egg rolls, plum sauce, and hot Oolong tea, he frowned at her in frustration.

"I know I'm forgetting something," he muttered. He sipped the tea gratefully, knowing from experience that it would help the headache lessen.

Gina shrugged lightly. "Well, this happens sometimes. It'll come back to you; it always does." She'd been alarmed at first at the small short-term memory losses her Muppet was prone to, given the hazards of his job and the dangerous but apparently natural energy field he projected which tended to draw disaster down upon him regularly. However, whatever small thing had been jarred out of his brain, inevitably he would recall within a day or two. It did mean she had to forgive the occasional missed dinner date or milk not picked up from the grocer's, but he was always so embarrassed and apologetic about such things; and she'd grown to understand keeping him relaxed and minimizing stress would help matters along faster. "Get some hot food into you."

Newsie nodded, dipping an egg roll in the sauce and chewing it thoughtfully. Gina remembered Sweetums being careful to hand over Newsie's attaché case as well as the Newsman himself; seeing her beloved unconscious in the protective arms of the gentle troll had at first alarmed her, then reassured her of Sweetums' benevolent intent. "You…you have some papers in your case. Was it something about those?"

"Oh," Newsie said, brightening. "Those…those are possible leads for the disappearances…I was reading through them all night…" He thought hard, but couldn't recall any specific piece of information from all that. "I can't…"

"Newsie, it's okay. It'll come back to you. Let's just focus on you getting some rest."

He scowled. "I feel like I've done nothing but lay around all week!"

"Well, if you were overwhelmed enough to faint, I'd say another week is in order." She met his worried look with a frown of her own. "I know, I know. You'll go crazy if I coop you up. So how about you staying here until you have to be at the news station tomorrow afternoon? That'll at least let you sleep in."

"What if there's some report work I've forgotten?" he wondered unhappily. "I should call Rhonda."

Gina checked the clock; only nine. "All right. Give her a call." Relieved, Newsie nodded at her, found his sports coat and fished in the pockets before he remembered the water.

"Oh…uh…my phone was soaked. I left it with the battery out to dry, back at the station," he mumbled.

Gina smiled. "You need a crunchproof, waterproof, everything-else-proof phone."

Newsie snorted, picking up the house phone from the nightstand. His head still ached, but at least individual thoughts weren't sending it on new romps of pain. He punched in the rat's number. She picked it up on the second ring. "No I have not heard from Goldie; what's he under this time?" Rhonda snapped.

"Er," Newsie stammered.

"Oh. It is the Golden Boy. I figured it was your girl trying ta track down where the herd of stampeding rhinos dragged you or something. What's up?"

Rhinos? Deciding not to complicate the conversation any more than his pounding skull could currently bear, Newsie muttered, "I just wanted to know if we had a report to work on tomorrow morning."

"What? No! Blanke forbade us to – oh. You got one a'those kinds of poundings, huh?" Rhonda sighed. In the background Newsie heard high-pitched shrieking. "No, sweetheart, nothing special. Just the usual newscast, be there by four if you don't wanna be yelled at, five-thirty if you don't care."

"Okay, four," Newsie agreed. "Uh…what's all the noise over there?"

"My marvelously wonderful nieces and nephews. Hang on. I am on the phone, you little cheeseweasels! Shut the frog up!" Newsie held the phone with the screeching rat away from his ear. Gina started giggling. "Sorry 'bout that. Makes me remember why I don't want a family all over again. Hey, I talked to my brothers, and they all dodged the question, but I cornered Philby – he's the youngest – and after a little sisterly persuading he finally told me they all fled the drainage tunnels because of weird noises…and because they had friends go missing."

"Rats? Going missing? Are they sure?"

"Newsie, this stuff we don't joke about." Rhonda lowered her voice, sounding nervous. "There's only one reason why your friend doesn't come back after a food run."

He was silent, thinking about it. The implication wasn't pretty. "Are…are you all right, Rhonda?"

She blew out a breath. "Yeah…yeah. I'm on the fourth floor, smack inna middle of NoHo. Should be fine, right?"

"Stop up your drains," Newsie advised, suddenly remembering he'd accomplished that much at the theatre. "Make sure nothing bigger than you can get in."

"I'm not so much worried about that as I am about the little ones going out – hey! What did I tell you little shrikes about eating the sofa cushions! 'Scuse me a sec." Newsie heard muffled noises, some loud thumps, and then squeaks. "Sorry. I just paid that thing off. Vernon, control your offspring or I will! …Geez. They're making me think twice about not tossing 'em down the garbage chute. Look, you let that sweetie of yours take care of you, and I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, 'kay sunshine? Gotta go."

Gina smiled as Newsie placed the phone back in its cradle. "I'm having trouble seeing Rhonda as a mom," she remarked.

"I think she is too," Newsie agreed. He sighed. "More confirmation from the rats. Something is under the city…and it sounds like it's…" He looked down at his half-eaten egg roll, suddenly not hungry.

"Um," Gina said, catching on. "Is…is her family okay?"

"Hopefully." He gazed seriously up at her. "Gina, I have to go down there again."

She drew him into a kiss. "I know. I know you do. But not tonight. And not without backup." She poured fresh tea from the dragonware-china pot for him. "Why don't you ask Sweetums to go with you? He might agree as long as you'd go, so he wouldn't be so afraid."

Newsie sputtered, quickly setting down his teacup to avoid a spill. "So he wouldn't – Gina, he's a troll!"

"He's a nice troll."

"He's almost eight feet tall!"

"And he handed you over to me very gently."

"He huh?"

Gina told him quietly of the worried monster carrying the unlucky Newsman up from the green room to the front entrance and gently setting him inside the cab. Newsie, shocked, sat silent a long time. Finally he asked in a low voice, "You think I can trust him?"

"Positive. If there are monsters underground, what better protection than another monster?"

He had to admit, there was a certain logic to that. He rubbed his eyes, terribly weary. "I wish I knew what it was I forgot."

"Newsie, don't worry about it. You always get it back; just give it some time. Ask around at the theatre; maybe someone else talked to you about all this. Maybe that visitor had some information."

"Maybe." Newsie scowled. "I don't even remember talking to anyone…just… something about fish, and coffee."

"It will come back," Gina insisted. "Just relax. How's your head?"

"Hurts," he admitted. Gina cleared away the dinner things from the bed and curled up with him, lifting the blankets enough for both of them to get underneath. He snuggled close to her, deeply relieved to have her there. Her touch was so gentle…her skin so silky, so pleasantly unlike his felt, and her fingers stroking his temples made him melt into the pillows. "Mmmmh," he sighed, giving up, all worries released by her touch. "I love you…"

Gina smiled; there was something about those words spoken in that always-a-little-gruff, somewhat nasal voice that amused her and melted her heart all at once. "You would be such a curmudgeon if I hadn't found you," she teased.

"Sure. I'd be doing shuffleboard scores from the box next to the geezer critics," he muttered, though he managed a smile.

She did something to tease him a different way, feeling him tense all over in surprise. "Hmm. Doesn't seem too old to me…"

With a groan, Newsie nudged himself closer and reached for her, fuzzy fingers happy to encounter smooth skin. He was indeed very, very glad she'd decided she could love such an accident-prone Muppet…and in her arms, he was at last able to focus on something besides a foamache.

***

Eustace forced his snout into an approximation of a smile. He'd never tried one, so it felt strange, but orders were orders… "Complimentssss of the head of the network," he said, handing down six large pizza boxes from Big Mama & Son's Pie Joint ("a LARGE smile every time!").

Gonzo's eyes widened. "Oh, cool! Hey, look, Rosie! We're a hit!"

"Mubba?" The monster sniffed, then all three pink eyes brightened. "Puzza!"

"Aw, this is so great! Hey, d'we have any sodas?" Gonzo asked, and while the monster hastily shuffled off to find something for them to wash down the slices, Gonzo beamed at the doglizard. "Wow, how nice! So the big guy likes my act, huh?"

Eustace considered how much to say. "He hasss sssaid he findsss you…amusssing."

"Hah ha! Well, great! You tell him I said thanks – and my next act is gonna be a real showstopper!" Gonzo looked into the various boxes. "Ooh, sardine salami onion pomegranate! Wow, a man after my own heart!"

"He hoped you would find it…pleasssing," Eustace said, noting the monsters gathering in the cell corridor, drooling. "He thought you might wisssh to sssselebrate your top sssstanding in the contessst. He wisssshes you great sssuccesss."

"Well, that's really nice of him! Wow, the head of the network is a fan!" Happy, Gonzo waved at the growing monster crowd. "Hey! This is for me being at the top of the leader board! Anyone want a bite?"

All of them looked at Eustace. He shrugged, and the mob fell upon the pizza boxes ravenously. Gonzo managed to save most of one box for himself and McGurk. Over the din of chewing and slobbering, he yelled at the departing doglizard: "Tell him I said he ain't seen nothing yet! Woo hoo!"

Eustace moved silently through the rough rock corridors, intercepting the rosy-furred monster as he trotted back bearing a couple of bottles of Mega Fishburp Cola. "You! Jussst what do you think you're doing?"

Confused, McGurk displayed the sodas. "Ahb…blabba muh gugga?"

Irritated, Eustace swatted them away. "I am sspeaking of your infatuation with thisss prisssoner! You look entirely too pleasssed to asssissst him with his idiotic ssstuntsss!"

"Ugga…wugga?" McGurk asked, then tried to assure the boss' right-hand flunky that there was nothing more than professional courtesy involved. "Muh, muh! Abba meh Gubba frahabba nuh nuh pegabboo…"

"And he will be sssacrifissed at the prosscribed time along with all other prissonersss! Do you have any isssue with that, sssslimebrain?" Eustace demanded, raising himself on clawtips to dominate the squat-bodied monster. McGurk flinched. "All non-monssterssss are cattle for the ssslaughter! Thisss our dark underlord hassss revealed to usss as our true purpossse! Do you doubt hisss inutterable majesssty?" Eustace roared.

"Nuh! Nuh! Inubba dugga puppa, gob id!" McGurk hastily repeated, backing away from that angry, toothy snout.

Eustace reined in a little of his fury; goblin, it felt good to unleash some of his pent-up stress! But he wanted the pink-furred thing cowed, not crushed. He glowered, fussily wiping the terrified spittle off his scales. "Remember your plassse, foolisssh featherhead! If you cannot ssseparate yourssself from the prey, you are of no ussse to his ickinesss, and you too ssshall be exxxtirpated! Asssissst the fool in hisss sssilly ssstratgemsss, but never forget where your liver belongsss!" He turned to stride away, then paused and looked back: McGurk, hornfallen, was sadly bending to pick up the dropped sodas. "Oh, and Rosssamond? Try to enssure hisss sssurvival until the big night. Our lord findsss him…entertaining."

Smugly, the doglizard departed, his tail whipping around a corner and cutting the nose of a passing orange critter with ten legs. "Ow!" the critter muttered, but when Eustace whirled, glaring, it cringed. "…Sorry?" With a snort, Eustace glided off.

Disconsolate, McGurk carried the sodas back to Gonzo's cell. Most of the other monsters had finished their share (and some their companions' shares and possibly also the companion) and wandered back to their duties; Gonzo sat on an empty explosives crate, grinning. "What took you so long? Here, I saved you a couple slices of the mousetail-applebutter one with extra cheese."

"Guh," McGurk said, handing over the soda.

"Did you shake it up?" Gonzo asked, and when the monster nodded, Gonzo grinned and opened the cap pointing at himself. Sticky froth shot all over his nose. "Woohoo! Man, I love it when it goes up my nostrils! The sugar gets to my brain faster that way," he explained. He nudged the monster as his friend sat down. "Hey, why so quiet? Aren't you excited? The boss likes us! That means we'll be sure to get lots of airtime, maybe a special interview or something!"

"Muh."

"Ohhh…you're wondering how we're going to top that last one, huh? Yeah, their putting actual requirements on it seems kinda limiting. But don't you worry! I already have a fantastic idea!" McGurk blinked, ruffling his pink-and-yellow mane uneasily. "Picture this: the announcer introduces us, the lights come up, the camera zooms in…and you're onstage, balancing a vat of hydrochloric acid on your head!" McGurk cringed, blinking in surprise. "So the audience has gotta be wondering, where's the Great Gonzo? The camera pans up…and there I am, on a unicycle on a revolving red sphere, tossing red-hots into the air and catching them in my nostrils until my nose is completely full – and guess what I do then!"

Stunned, the monster sat there with wide eyes, speechless, as Gonzo continued to outline the most outrageous act McGurk had ever heard of…no, check that: McGurk had never heard of anything that ridiculous, foolhardy, painful, and likely to cause serious injury or death to both of them. He tried to express some faint enthusiasm in the face of the weirdo's boundless eagerness, but the doglizard's warning floated through his head. As they ate their pizza, McGurk sighed to himself. It really did seem a shame to waste this much baffling…er…talent, but the hideous dark scary boss was the hideous dark scary boss, and not to be crossed, ever. Still…

McGurk looked up as Gonzo poked him. "Hey, check this out! Can you do this?"

The monster stared. Two pizza crusts stuck out of the whatever's nose. With a mad cackle, he opened his eyes wide as he snorked the crusts up and in. "Ha ha ha! Go on, try it, it's fun!"

***

The atmosphere the Newsman awoke to was quiet, calm, and smelled of dying leaves. Newsie smiled at the scented candle Gina had left to ease him gently into the morning, and blew the flames out, always safety-conscious. His beloved was already at work, so he fixed himself some cranberry-almond cereal and more pumpkin coffee and brought his attaché case into the kitchen. As he pulled his laptop onto the small café table in one corner of the snug, warm kitchen, a sheaf of papers tumbled out of the case. Frowning, he retrieved them. He couldn't recall whether he'd read through the entire stack of possible leads or not. Remembering that he'd jotted down a few notes, he found his notepad, but leafing through it turned up something more compelling: the list of phone numbers and company names given to him by Ma Bell.

Gina had asked him to stay home until he needed to get to work, for his own health…well, he could do research perfectly well from home, right? He sipped his coffee, crunched the cereal, and started a search for any and everything about Ars Moribunda Studios. The uneasy hunch in his foam still said all of this was related somehow: the monsters, his aunt, people disappearing…so this seemed as good a place as any to dig in. The first several entries he found were listings on IMDB, production credits for various television shows: "Hammily Feud," "You Win a Fish!", and "Name That Solvent" seemed tame enough, but Newsie shuddered at a few more obvious fiend-fests: "Lice Road Suckers," "Monsters Tonight! with Carl the Big Mean Host," and the upcoming reality-romance show, "I Married a Monster!"

What the hey is all this? he thought, the growing list of credits with monster-friendly titles making him nervous. When a neighbor's garbage disposal growled on the other side of the kitchen wall, he jumped, resettling in his chair only reluctantly. Going back to the original search page, he looked for anything with an actual street address and found only a P.O. box; a newspaper ad from two weeks ago turned out to be an expired link. Guess I could stake out the post office and see what turns up…no; they'd probably call security if I hung out there all day. Newsie shoved his cereal bowl aside, frowning deeply as he considered any other option for finding this production company, but going several pages into the online search only brought up more game and reality show titles, a handful of trade reviews, and a tiny article on a blog called "FRACK!" about the studio garnering the Pointy Beaktooth Award for Frackle Equality for hiring a huge number of the strange creatures.

Frustrated, he turned his attention to the second company on the list, MMN. Although he couldn't discover what the letters stood for, he learned they were an independent television network based here in the city, which seemed to show Ars Moribunda productions almost exclusively. He found a schedule listing for the station and saw many of the game shows and reality knockoffs he'd already read about; the only thing on tonight, for instance, which hadn't been produced by the mysterious studio was a reshowing of "Ghoulies 5 ½: The Regurgitation."

Newsie shuddered, and took a break from the awful stuff to warm his coffee again. He searched another hour, but found only local ratings charts (MMN, indeed, was beating his weekend-anchor timeslot – and with airings of some ridiculous stunt contest, to add insult to injury!), a few mentions couched within articles about some of the shows (critics for the Post and the Scandal seemed to lavish undue praise on Big Mean Carl in particular, claiming he was "funnier than Jay!"), and one small article in BusinessWeek about MMN receiving their FCC license late last year and starting operations with a viewing radius of approximately forty miles. A radius from where, exactly? Newsie wondered, but nowhere could he locate more specific information.

A second fresh cup started him on the third name on the list, the better-known Nofrisko corporation, makers of snack cakes and bargain-priced crackers which sold all along the eastern seaboard and in Kahfrackistan, according to the cheery homepage for the company. And there, at last, a street address! The corporate head office was right here in downtown Manhattan! Excited, Newsie quickly jotted it on his notepad, then flicked through the site, eager for any connection between a junk-food maker and monsters…but it all appeared perfectly harmless. Disgusting from a nutritional-value standpoint, but otherwise ordinary. No mention of monsters, or even MMN, anywhere. Newsie realized he had reason to feel grateful to Ma Bell for providing him with a link he wouldn't have been able to track on his own: nowhere was it listed that one of Nofrisko's ownings was the strange new TV station.

I'll just tell Rhonda, and if she wants to pass that along, fine, Newsie thought with a grimace. He had no intention of setting foot among the phone-rats again, ever. He looked at the time, checked the current temperature, drummed his fingertips on the table a moment and weighed his options. Naturally, the new lead won out, and within minutes he'd showered, dressed in his starkest gray suit and dullest brown-and-gray striped tie, and put on his wonderful new fedora before he left the apartment. Who knew the gift of a hat would inspire such a bold disguise! Anxious but motivated, he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address in the Bowery.

The building seemed to take up only the lower two floors of a renovated tenement wedged among restaurant-supply storefronts, but it was at least clearly labeled, and gaily decorated with a molded-fiberglass Fwinkie snack cake over the entrance. Newsie checked to make sure the shiny badge he'd been inspired to bring was firmly stuck in his wallet opposite his ID. He took a deep breath, offered up a silent prayer to St Murrow, and trying to picture the way Miss Piggy strode into any room as if she owned it, pushed open the door and entered scowling, his hat pulled down on his brow.

A round-faced, yellow Whatnot lady with hair so bright orange it could only have come from a yarn dye greeted him with an uncertain smile. "Welcome to Nofrisko! How may I help you, and which cake is your favorite?" She waved a beatific hand over a platter of representative products: Fwinkies, Hobos, and Flingers.

"Health Department, Dyes and Additives Division," Newsie muttered, flashing his ID and his old toy press badge at her only an instant before slipping the wallet back into his pocket. He glared at the snacks. "Investigating a complaint about possible fatal reactions to red number twelve in your products."

"O-oh," the receptionist said, startled. "Um…did you have an appointment?"

"If I had, what would be the point of a surprise inspection?" Newsie snapped, hoping he sounded authoritative enough to bring this off.

"Oh! Um, of course, yes. I'll…I'll just page Mr Tonkin for you…"

"Don't bother," Newsie growled, heading for the first door he saw. "I'll just take a look around."

"Oh, that's – that's the coat closet," the receptionist stammered, hurrying to plant herself in front of Newsie. "Er…may I take your coat, Mr…?"

"Murrow," he ad-libbed. "No, thank you. I'm not planning on being here that long…unless of course I find something I don't like!" Scowling again at the flustered woman, he turned to the next door, a larger one with ornate handles. He pulled it open and strode through, terrified and excited at the ease of his progress so far. The receptionist didn't follow him, and he glanced left and right into glass-doored offices full of desks, computers, and curious employees who watched him pass. As far as he could tell, the ground floor was nothing but white-collar stuff. He found an elevator and stepped in; the buttons said 1, 2, and B…but the basement level required a key to access. Unhappily, he punched 2, sure that what he wanted was lower, not higher, but determined to see everything. On the second floor he walked into a large, open area divided partly into half-walled cubicles and half into a large conference room. Opening the door to that, he interrupted a group of children eating some sort of green-icinged muffins; a man with a clipboard swung around in perplexity.

"Ah…sorry, this is a test group, we won't be done for another half-hour," the man said. A couple of the children stopped chewing the apparently rubbery muffins to stare at the Newsman.

"Murrow, Health Department," Newsie muttered. He picked up one of the snacks and sniffed cautiously. "Er…anchovy paste?"

"It's been filtered; it's mercury-free," the man hastily assured Newsie. "We…we did send the ingredient list to the FDA months back before we even started production!"

"Well the Additives Division still needs a copy!" Newsie barked. "We've had some complaints involving your products and a recent outbreak of…of redmonella, so I'll need any material you have on this immediately!"

"Uh, sure," the tester said, thrusting a sheet of paper at Newsie entitled Shamrockies! A full serving of Omega-3 in every delicious cake! "Wait…redmonella?"

Realizing the only way out of it was boldly through it, Newsie snorted haughtily, glancing at the cupcake ingredient list. "I see you folks don't read our emails either, hm? Perhaps a little more diligence in all areas would have saved you this inspection!" Some of the items mixed into the cupcakes gave him serious pause. "Uh…arachnoflightis gerundis extract?"

"For the color," the tester explained, looking a little anxious himself now. "A natural additive."

"Hm," Newsie said, thinking he'd better run this by Honeydew, who might be able to decipher some of the stranger ingredients. "And this particular test was submitted for approval to the New Snack Food Clinical Trial Division?" He was winging it, but the more officious he sounded, the less likely it was his ruse would be shattered…

A soft, purring voice asked from the doorway: "Is there some issue I could clear up here, gentlemen?" Newsie turned to see an enormous sandy-furred cat in a silky light gray suit, staring shrewdly at him.

"Mr Tonkin," the tester said, sounding both relieved and afraid at once. "Uh, um, this man is from the—"

"Health Department. Yes, so I heard." The cat smiled suavely. "What can I assist you with today, Mr Murrow?"

"Ahem. It, uh, it seems there has been a complaint lodged concerning some of the additives your company uses in its cakes, particularly the crème filling," Newsie said.

"Oh, well, by all means, take a look around…though you are of course aware we don't actually make any of our fine snacks here, but in our main bakery in Newark," Tonkin said. His deep blue eyes never blinked.

"Yes, naturally," Newsie said. "However, we strive for thorough diligence, Mr…Tonkin was it? You're the head of the company?"

The cat waved a paw languidly. "Merely the CEO. May I show you around?"

Unable to think of a good objection, Newsie grunted assent, and walked stiffly next to the cat. "We run taste tests with our target audiences almost every day, always sensitive to changing tastes in the marketplace, you understand. Almost every month there are miniscule adjustments to our formulae. The snack industry is quite competitive, and every small edge helps us maintain our profits while ensuring the continued quality of our products," Tonkin said, gesturing at the office area. "Here, our market researchers pore over the results of every test – those done here, and in supermarkets and events all over. They gather and interpret those results to determine how much fish oil the public really likes in their dairy-free lime crème…as an example." He gazed narrow-eyed at the Newsman. "Which additive is the suspected culprit? Which product?"

"Er…red dye number eleven, in – in all products which use it!"

"We don't use that dye at all," Tonkin purred, smiling. "But I could have sworn you said red number twelve?"

"Of course, that's correct," Newsie said gruffly. "Twelve! Which products use that?"

"Well, we did previously include that in our Flingers Strawberry flavor," Tonkin admitted as they strolled at his leisurely pace along the cubicles. "However, we discontinued its use months ago. I'm afraid your sense of urgency is somewhat misplaced, Mr Murrow."

"I…I see. I still require a complete inspection of your offices," Newsie said.

"Of course. Shall we go downstairs to the tech and advertising departments?"

"The basement," Newsie snapped.

"Oh, well…all we have down there is storage files, current product samples, and the restroom," Tonkin shrugged. "As you see, we've streamlined our offices a great deal in order to focus more on the products themselves. But certainly, you shall see every inch of the place." His smile was too smug for Newsie's comfort.

The cat produced an elevator key to unlock the basement level, and down they went. "If it's nothing important, why limit access?" Newsie asked.

"Oh…this isn't the nicest portion of real estate, you know. We had burglars last year, thinking we had a safe downstairs or something like."

Newsie wondered, if that was true, why the entire office was so easy to walk into, but kept his mouth shut, not wishing to blow his disguise by seeming too nosy in the wrong areas. The elevator door opened to reveal a very plain, whitewashed level full of filing cabinets, identical storage closets labeled printer supplies or 'Hobos' Promos or similar ordinary-sounding things. Newsie opened a few of them, finding their contents exactly as listed. He poked around in the tiny restroom, but its drain was too small for anything larger than a dustmite to come through; he doubted it even drained at all. Tonkin waited by the elevator, stroking his thick whiskers absently. When Newsie turned toward him again, the cat smiled. "See all you need, inspector?"

Newsie glanced around one more time, trying to compare the walls with the footprint of the building on the street, but if there was room for a secret section he couldn't tell. "I suppose," he muttered, and joined the cat for the ride back up.

"We wish to always be on the correct side of the FDA and health board regulations," Tonkin assured him. "Come and have a look at our ad offices; we never even advertise a use for our cakes which they cannot be put to! Remember that failed product, the Day After Fruitcake? When consumers showed no interest in it as a food stockpiler for their nuclear shelters, we still made a profit off them by marketing them as wonderful doorstops!" He put a hand on Newsie's shoulder, guiding him toward one of the glassed-in offices on the first floor; Newsie went along with it, trying to act mollified despite his nerves, when suddenly his nose picked up a whiff of wet, dirty fur. He whirled – and saw a greenish, clawed hand quickly closing the formal wooden door to the lobby.

Newsie hurried after it, but the small lobby was empty except for the woman behind the desk. He looked out the front door, but saw no sign of anything monstrous on the street. "Who was that?" he demanded of the receptionist.

She blinked at him. "I'm sorry…do you mean Mr Tonkin?"

"No, the – person – who just left!"

"Oh, must have been the mailman," she replied, patting the empty outbox on her desk with a nervous chuckle. "See? Mail's gone."

Newsie scowled; the scent lingered. "Can I…can I interest you in a Fooberry Hobo?" the wide-eyed Whatnot asked him.

"Now, Miss Snorkle," the cat purred, padding silently up behind the Newsman. "I think we've taken up enough of the good bureaucrat's patience. Do send us a copy of your report, for our records, won't you?" he asked Newsie, eyes glinting.

"No…yes…er. I certainly will," Newsie returned, drawing himself up and hardening his stare. He left quickly, uneasy at the certainty that the cat was laughing at him once the door closed.

On the sidewalk, he checked again for any sign or scent of anything untoward, but the swirl of noise and movement and chemical smells negated any chance he might've had. He tried twice to hail a cab, then began walking north, thinking. That was a clear line of sight from the elevator to the lobby doors, couldn't have gone that way; couldn't have vanished that fast on the street, could it? Which leaves…which leaves… He tried to recreate the scene as he'd first viewed it, and recalled with a start: That door! Coat closet, my foot! Angrily he looked back. Just barging in again would likely get him tossed out, or arrested, or worse… He shivered, but knew he had to come back and find out what was really behind that innocuous door.

Pembroke Tonkin shut the door to his private office, lifted the phone from his desk, and touched one button. Without waiting for a reply on the other end, he said simply, "We had a visitor. I didn't like the look of his felt…sending you the security footage now." He hung up, tapped a sequence of keys on his computer, and sat back in plump satisfaction. The great thing about being a controlling officer but not the president, he well knew, was that Muppets like this were happily someone else's problem.


	24. Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. _In which Van Neuter discovers that Muppet-monster hybrids are not always the best idea; the Newsman and Rhonda discover who owns their jobs; and a Whatnot protestor discovers the streets aren't safe._

Dr Van Neuter carefully added a few drops of warmed giant spider venom to the Pyrex container clamped over a low flame. The spider, none too happy about having been milked, grumped, "Are we done here?"

Van Neuter waved a backward hand absently at the arachnid. "Well I'm not, but you go spin your web or whatever it is you do, Muriel."

"The name's Warren," the spider snarled, jumped onto the ceiling, and scuttled away.

"Whatever," Van Neuter muttered, focused on the exact temperature of the solution. Just as it came to a bubbling boil, he grabbed it with heavy-duty pliers, removed it from the burner stand, and poured it into a gigantic syringe. Capping it off quickly, he brushed a hand across his forehead in relief. "Well! All ready! Roll up your sleeve, please!" He chuckled as the show host gave him a steely stare. "Whoops, silly me, you don't have sleeves anymore! Just sit still then."

Fauxworthy, chained to a heavy lab table, offered no comment. Van Neuter stuck the sharp end of the syringe under the bright yellow-spotted purple fur on the altered Whatnot's arm, and depressed the plunger all the way…which took a good minute and a half. Fauxworthy winced, but held his tongue; it tended to drag the ground now if he didn't. "Wonderful! Oh, you're such a good patient! Thatch, give this good boy a lollipop!" Pausing, Van Neuter realized that might be inappropriate now. "Uh…or would you rather have a critter cookie?"

Thatch McGurk ambled over, a ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a famous blue googly-eyed monster in one hand and an oversized lolly in the other. "Ahfrazza blah?"

Fauxworthy, feeling the serum burning its way through his veins, turned his head away, stoically refusing to give in to a groan. In the past few days, he'd suffered crows' feet, fur over his upper torso, a rubbery tongue and a beak where his nose used to be. He gripped the table with still vaguely-Muppet hands, bracing for the inevitable change, while Van Neuter and his monstrous assistant watched eagerly. "Oh for crying out loud, you should be bursting into spikes by now!" Van Neuter complained. He whirled on the elder McGurk. "Did you get me the centipede teeth like I asked? Those better not have been millipede fangs, you lazy fluffball!"

"Bahrazza sebbipeeza mah gugga!" McGurk protested. A series of quick popping noises made both swing back to see Fauxworthy burst out in…enormous pink butterfly wings. Muppet and monster blinked and stared.

"Oh bloody frog," Fauxworthy muttered. "Incompetent mad scientists, yet!"

"Who're you calling mad? I am positively ecstatic about that!" Van Neuter crowed. "Look at that, Thatch! Flight! The dream of men and Muppets alike, ever since the first experimental flight of the kittyhawk!"

"The locale was Kitty Hawk, you myopic crank," the host grumbled, test-flapping the new appendages with a sour look on his beaky, mustached face. "Clearly, that elongated cranium of yours is due to the air bubbles in your brain." His feet didn't leave the ground one inch, and Van Neuter's expression fell.

"Oh, drat! And I put in three milliliters of kittyhawk extract, too!" He turned to a nearby cage, where a tiny brown-tabby kitten with huge batwings placidly lapped at a saucer of milk. "Hm. Perhaps the beast needs to be a grown adult instead of a fledgling kitten…"

"Kah hazzah no goobah?" Thatch wondered, hungrily eyeballing the tiny caged beast, but when he reached a hand toward the cage latch, a fast, vicious swat of a clawed paw made him jerk back with a yelp.

"Stop annoying the test material," Van Neuter scolded the monster, though he didn't look up from the formula printout on his clipboard. "Oh, well. Every setback is a kind of progress, as the captain of the Hindenburg said…Thatch, fetch me the muzzle. We have to get Geoff here back to his cell in time for his next show taping." He smiled pleasantly at Fauxworthy as Thatch, sulkily sucking his injured fingers, trudged off to find the beak-shaped safety muzzle. "So, which is it today – Drainpipe or whatsit, that other one with the four-by-fours…"

"Truck Monsters," Fauxworthy grumbled. "Paragons of culture both. Does it really matter? The target audience is interchangeable."

"Interchangeable! That's it!" Van Neuter exclaimed. "Oh! Oh! I'm such a sillyfoam! The answer was right in front of me!" He whirled around to find himself face-to-face with a confused purple-feathered monster with three eyes. "Thatch! Hold it right there!"

"Uh?" the monster wondered, when abruptly the vet stuck a needle right between all three eyes. "Ugga!"

"I said hold still!" Van Neuter complained. He held up a few precious drops of green fluid in a tiny syringe. "Of course! Feathered monster blood!"

"Ungha," Thatch groaned, then slumped to the floor.

Oblivious, the vet turned back around and jabbed the needle into the same vein he'd suffused earlier on Fauxworthy. "I say, old jabberwocky, that's hardly sanitary!" the host protested.

"Oh, no worries, the centipede fang venom will destroy any lingering Hep Z. Now…how does that feel?" Van Neuter asked, examining his subject closely. Fauxworthy began shivering, and shaking, and threw back his head for a loud caw. Suddenly his eyes changed, almost disappearing under heavy blue lids, and the butterfly wings flumphed out into huge pink webbed wings instead. Glumly, Fauxworthy peered over his shoulder at them, and flapped once; the chains creaked as the Muppet-monster hybrid rose into the air and then resettled. "Thatch! I did it! I did it! Hooray for me!" Van Neuter cried, doing a little happy dance in place.

McGurk raised a woozy horned head, his tongue sticking out more than usual. "Gazza?"

"Yes! Yes! Just look at those wings! Oh, tell me, and remember, this is for posterity, so please be honest: how do you feel?" he asked Fauxworthy.

"Like I may be ill at any moment," the former Whatnot groaned, turning away as much as he could.

A long, toothy snout sidled around the doorframe of the lab. The doglizard stared at the half-monster chained to the table. "Why have you ressstrained thisss…" He stopped, and looked more closely; Fauxworthy peered sullenly back. "Isss thiss the ssshow hossst?"

"Yes! You thought it was a real monster, didn't you!" Van Neuter crowed, pointing a rubber-gloved finger joyously at the boss' flunky.

"It iss indeed impressssive progresss," Eustace admitted, edging around the freak to draw the tall veterinarian aside for a private chat. "Hisss dark-and-murkinessss is impatient to advanssse this project quickly! Have you readied hisss transssformative ssserum yet?"

Van Neuter threw his hands in the air, this time in exasperation rather than jubilance. "Rush, rush, rush! What's the hurry? Obviously I'm making progress; just take another look at that wonderful hybrid!"

Eustace grimaced. He personally didn't approve of mixing pureblood monsters and this…creature Van Neuter was in the process of gleefully remodeling to his own whim. If such half-things were permitted to blend into the underground, what would become of the glorious monster race? Bad enough those Frackles had been welcomed in, he thought; of course he would never express such distaste aloud. It might get back to the underlord, and the underlord's wishes were not to be questioned… To the mad vet, the doglizard said merely, "I sssaw it. I will inform his ssslitherinesss of it. However, he isss anxiousss to prossseed with the Grand Assscenssion."

Van Neuter blew out a breath so long it was in danger of sounding close to a raspberry. "Well, fine! Then you tell him I need better test subjects! I mean, working with Muppets is fun, I'll grant you, any day of the week – but if your boss wants me to make him—"

"Sssshhhh!" Eustace growled, raising a claw to strike the foolish doctor, then thinking better of it. His sliminess would have Eustace's tail for a coach-whip if anything happened to the vet which set back this secret project. He vastly resented the fact that Van Neuter had been permitted a private audience with the underlord, at which, rumor had it, the vet had actually been permitted to gaze upon the unutterable horror of the dark leader's person without concealment! And yet, after such an indescribable honor, one which had reportedly driven lesser Frackles mad, this idiot of a Muppet was treating his sacred contract with the underlord as…as something frivolous! Angry, Eustace lashed his long tail. A few feet away, Thatch yelped in protest, then went to find a Band-aid, grumbling.

"Hey, I'm the only one allowed to maim my assistants!" Van Neuter complained. "It's in my contract!"

"Jussst remember whom that contract isss with, you flighty fool," the doglizard snarled.

"Flighty! Oh that's a good one!" Van Neuter giggled. He bounded over to the mostly-changed Whatnot, stroking a wing. "Do you like the pink? I think Thatch must have a recessive gene; I was expecting purple!"

"I will inform hisss horridnesss that you require different sssubjectsss," Eustace spat out, disgusted with the entire business. "Get thisss…creature back to his ssssell. It isss almosst time for hisss next performansse."

"Thatch! Where is that muzzle! Thatch!" Van Neuter sighed, frustrated, not noticing the doglizard's exit. "Honestly! I think Mulch was actually faster and better-trained!" When repeated yells failed to produce his assistant, the vet unhooked the chain from the table and tugged at Fauxworthy's collar. "Well, come on, then, let's get you back down to- waaauuugh!" The half-monster beat his new wings, lifting himself and Van Neuter about a foot off the floor, then crashing down on top of the skinny vet. "Oh my! Well…that was very…very well done…good boy…" Van Neuter puffed, trying to extricate himself from beneath the birdlike feet. He looked up into the very sharp beak and angry furrowed brows of the maligned host crouching over him. "Ummm…"

A camerafrackle plunked down a tripod and began setting up his equipment. "Ready ta shoot in a sec," it said.

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago!" Van Neuter protested. "I can't film now, I have to get Geoffy here back to his…er, his…" He blinked up in growing awareness of just how sharp he'd made that beak, and how unhappy with his scientifically groundbreaking status the Whatnot seemed to be. "Why are you looking at me like that? Uh…nice birdie! Good boy –waaaaaahhh!"

The Frackle shook his head, annoyed. Why couldn't they ever wait until he was fully set up? Sighing, he went ahead and turned on the camera, focusing on-the-fly while the half-monster expressed his displeasure at what had been done to him…although the ferocity with which that beak nipped and ripped suggested perhaps a monsterish nature was surfacing in the formerly blasé show host. The soundfrackle showed up, and exclaimed at the scene: "Oh come on! I didn't bring the fuzzy mike – no one told me there'd be screaming today!"

The orange-furred one manning the camera shrugged. "Professionalism is a dying animal, George. Do whatcha can."

"I swear to ya, Pete, no more vet gigs! No more! Ya hear me? I'm tired of this! Last one!" the long-nosed dark blue monster grumbled as he tried to capture the highest squeaks in Van Neuter's shrieking voice.

Pete peered around the eyepiece a moment. "Ya may get your wish on that, George."

***

Rhonda found her reporter sitting coatless and tieless and frowning at a sheet of paper. "Were you thinking of doing your segment more casually tonight? That's actually a good look for you," the rat commented, appraising the Newsman from the doorway of his dressing-room.

Embarrassed, he hastily went to the coatrack and picked out one of his brown plaid standbys and a brown-and-red striped tie. "No. I…er…had to drop my jacket at the cleaner's on the way in…I walked all the way from the Bowery, and there was a puddle of standing liquid at a curb, and a taxicab…"

"Gotcha," Rhonda said, shaking her head. "Good thing you keep a supply of plaid on hand for just such situations."

"Foresight is the journalist's best friend," Newsie responded seriously.

"Does Gina know you still wear those? Never mind. Why were you in the Bowery?"

He filled her in on his adventure earlier at Nofrisko. "I'm positive it was that…that big green thing that hangs around the theatre sometimes! There has to be a secret entrance to the tunnels in that office!"

Rhonda quirked her ears sideways. "Wait…are you talking about that bigmouthed black-lagoony thing that danced with Alice Cooper, back in the day? Newsie, that thing couldn't fit down the ConEd tunnels! And why would a snack company be in league with suspicious monsters?"

"Nofrisko owns MMN," Newsie pointed out, tapping off each item on his fingertips: "MMN shows a lot of monster-oriented programming! They also own the production studio which makes those same monsterish shows – and it was someone at that studio who was claiming to be me – and there have been monsters all over the asylum where my aunt lives, not the least of which are those two freakish chenille things that put her in the hospital in the first place!" Seeing Rhonda about to object, he added, "And I smelled that same wet, dirty fur stench, in the Nofrisko office, right before I caught a glimpse of the monster! Rhonda – do you – um…" Looking sheepish, he whispered gruffly, "Do you have any rat friends who know how to break into places?"

The rat's eyes were wide. She stood stock-still a long moment, then slowly shook her head. "I never. Ever. Thought you would ask for something like that!"

Dropping to a crouch to look her in the eyes, Newsie grasped her paw in both his hands, gently. "Rhonda, I don't know what else to do! I have to get in there and find out what the frog is going on! It's…there's so many leads to this, so many angles, it's driving me up the wall! I know it's all connected, all of it!"

"You start pinning notes to the wall and connecting them with string, and so help me, I will call your aunt's loony bin myself and ask if you two can share a room!" Rhonda took her paw back, and nervously fluffed out her hair. "Look, not even Woodward and Bernstein ever broke in anyplace – they just talked to the guy who knew the guys who broke inta places! That kinda stuff is for the cops, Newsie. Why don't you go find your friend on the force and –"

"He's on administrative leave, remember?" Frustrated, he realized he still hadn't put on his tie or a fresh jacket, and tossed the tie angrily around his neck, tucking it under his shirtcollar. "Rhonda, no one else is going to follow any of these leads, and they all seem to be pointing to something big and nasty happening underground! We need to find a way in and get proof enough to expose it for anyone else to take it seriously! We should—"

Rhonda leaped up, grabbed one end of the knot he was tying, and yanked on it with just enough strength to pull a startled Newsie down until his nose bumped hers. "We do not have to do anything, you brown plaid foamhead! Will you look at what this obsession is doing to you? You've already made yourself sick once, and you just impersonated a health inspector, and now you're talking about breaking and entering! What is wrong with you!"

Regaining his presence of mind, though still bent over and half-choked by his exasperated producer, the Newsman yelled at her, "I am a newsman! I follow the story, and frog it, rat, this is the story! What the hey is wrong with you that you're not?!"

His bellow had blown Rhonda's hair all over; glaring, she released his tie to smooth it out again. He straightened his back, returning the glare. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. With a huff, Newsie turned away from her and used the long mirror over the makeup counter to fix his tie. He pulled on his jacket and adjusted his cuffs properly, brain aswirl in a sea of facts and hunches, feeling deeply hurt. When Rhonda climbed onto the counter, he glanced at her, then back at his own reflection, stonily silent.

"Okay," Rhonda said quietly. They looked at each other in the mirror. Rhonda sighed, and her voice was much more gentle. "But Goldie…what if you're wrong? What if you get arrested? You'll lose your job, Gina will wonder if you just sustained one too many head injuries, and…and…well, you'll feel like a total idiot."

Newsie took a deep breath, gazing unfocused at his hands. He'd considered all of that; worried about it, gone over and over the events, the coincidences, and the undisputable facts during his walk uptown this afternoon. "I feel like that most of the time anyway," he muttered. He raised his eyes once more, and met Rhonda's gaze in the mirror.

His expression was so open, so earnest, that for an instant Rhonda understood what Gina saw in the misfit journalist. Then she noticed the spot of street gunk on the underside of his jaw, and snickered. He shot her a very hurt look, and the rat sighed and grabbed a tissue to wipe the spot off his felt. "You're an idiot."

He grimaced at her, but the anger dissipated. "Are you in or out?" he growled.

She took out a compact and powdered her nose lightly, although she knew perfectly well she'd have to do so again before six o'clock rolled around. "I gotta nephew that can pick any lock, and I mean any. I don't usually deal with him or his father 'cept to say hiya at family dinners, and this is not something I want to ever hear from anyone else's lips around here, but…yeah. You could say I'm connected."

Newsie, surprised, started to smile. "Rhonda…your family is…Family?"

"What did I just say about lips and certain terms? What did you just hear me say?"

"So when can you…"

"Let's wait 'til after the party tomorrow. I say middle of the day Sunday."

"What? T-try to break in, in broad daylight?"

"Trust me, sunshine. Get one of Beau's coveralls and caps; you guys are almost the same height, should fit ya all right. People sneaking inta a place middle of the night, people notice…painters coming on a weekend to do a little work, nobody cares."

"Painters…Rhonda, that's genius."

"Gawd, I cannot believe I am agreeing to call 'Fredo," the rat sighed. "Are you one hundred per cent sure you saw a monster hand?"

"Saw it, smelled it." He scowled briefly. "I keep wondering why you don't smell these things! I thought rat noses were pretty keen!"

"Uh, well…sad to admit, but certain odors we just kinda…don't notice. This is more attuned to fine cuisine. And finely crafted French perfumes that sell for hundreds and up per ounce, of course." Rhonda twitched her delicate whiskers at him; he wondered if she might actually be blushing.

"Of course," he agreed at once, grinning. "Um…I'll keep going through the emailed leads. There may yet be something useful in all that garbage. And I want to show this to Dr Honeydew tonight…" He retrieved the paper the Nofrisko product tester had given him, with the ingredients for Shamrockies. "I want to know why a snack cake company is supporting a pro-monster network."

Rhonda shivered. "Iccch. You don't think they're putting weird stuff in the Fwinkies, do you? 'Cause I've—I mean, my nieces and nephews have, uh, eaten that stuff a time or two…"

Newsie shrugged. "I can't tell what half of this stuff even is! I'm hoping the scientists can shed some light on it."

"Or enlighten us about the shedding," Rhonda said, reading over the list. "Muppalepus snarlodontus 3x? What is this, homeopathic fur use? Newsie, that was the name of the extinct monster rabbit that attacked Kermit at the Museum this summer!"

Embarrassed at not having caught that, Newsie took the paper back and studied it. "I wanted to learn Latin, but Mother said she didn't want me to be a pansy bookworm…" he muttered.

"Okay, look, how about this," Rhonda said, tiny brows scrunched. "You keep at those possible leads from our darling viewers. I'll research more on MMN; I wanna know what's so compelling about their game show thing that has people watching it instead of the news on Saturday nights. At the very least, what the hey, we'll find some way to scoop the ratings competitors, right? We keep our noses clean around here –" She gave the Newsman an annoyed glare when he checked the underside of his nose for any more stains from his unfortunate puddle encounter. "—and Sunday we'll go check out the Coat Closet of Doom, okay?" She sighed. "Does this mean you've given up on exploring the subway tunnels?"

"No. But Gina had a good suggestion: take Sweetums with us."

Rhonda stared at him. "He's a troll."

"I know that!" He couldn't meet her eyes. "I, uh, was informed I may have been a little unfair to him…Gina trusts him."

"You are a tightly-wound yellow fuzzy heap of contradictions, ya know that?" Rhonda shrugged. "Fine. Anything else got your newsie-sense tingling?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, Blanke's been patrolling the halls acting all jumpy the past hour; let's get down to brass tacks on tonight's stories, okay? Best not to provoke him right now."

"Why is he jumpy? Has…has there been some other trouble with a sponsor?" Newsie wondered.

Before Rhonda could even speculate, the dressing-room door slammed open and a very agitated Harlan Grosse Point Blanke strode in. "You! Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?" Blanke roared.

"Er – uh –" Newsie gulped. "…No?"

"What did I tell you about no more special reports?" Blanke shouted. "And I find out that today, not even twenty-four hours after I reined you and your big nose in, you've been harassing our parent company, poking around over some trumped-up health violation! Well I have had it with you Muppets!"

Newsie's jaw dropped; even Rhonda looked frightened. "Our…parent company? Nofrisko? Our parent company?"

"Danged right Nofrisko! They own fifty-two percent of our stock! Just what the hey did you think you were doing? They have you on tape impersonating a health inspector and interrogating the CEO at his office this afternoon! Nofrisko has nothing to do with those blasted hamsterburgers! What possible reason did you have for going over there?" Blanke continued to yell, turning beet-red down past his collar.

"Uh, you might wanna loosen your tie," Rhonda piped up uncertainly.

"And I warned you to keep him in line!" Blanke turned on her angrily.

"But – but – since when has Nofrisko owned this station?" Newsie sputtered, stunned. Oh frog! That means there could be a connection to all this right here in the building! I never thought to check the drains here!

"Why were you over there?" Blanke demanded, still apoplectic. "Just what sort of cloak-and-dagger B.S. do you think you're playing at, Muppet? You read the news! That's it! And you know what? That's it is right! I hired you to avoid that silly lawsuit by the ACLU and MADL, not because I wanted you to play industrial spy! Your special reports are ridiculous, your on-air segments are a joke, and your weekend anchor spot was only supposed to be temporary until I could find someone else willing to work that cheap! Muppet, you are fired!" He thrust a shaking finger at Rhonda. "And you are demoted, as of this instant, to coffee rat!"

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Newsie cried, recovering from his shock just as Blanke was turning to leave the room. "There is a story involving Nofrisko, whether they own us or not! And – and you can't fire me for actually practicing investigative journalism! I'll go right to those MADL people and tell them how – how prejudiced you are! See how your wonderful parent company likes you being cause for a very public lawsuit!"

"And I do not fetch coffee for anyone!" Rhonda yelled, planted in a fighting stance atop the makeup counter. "You're nothing but a slave in a suit! How dare you threaten a reporter doing his job, or a rat doing hers!"

Blanke looked about to boil. Yanking down his tie, gulping for breath, he stared at the two outraged journalists with wide, crazed eyes. "I –I – then – then you're both suspended! The FCC and the FBI and – and everyone else I can think of will review your personnel files and this latest act of insubordination and then you'll be fired, and lawsuits be d—d!" He gasped, looking on the verge of spontaneous combustion. "Now get out of this studio, both of you! I don't want to see either of you back here until you're standing in front of a review board! Out! Out!"

Blanke stormed down the hall. Rhonda heard a soft murmur starting up out there, as people wondered what had just taken place. The Newsman grabbed loosely at the back of his chair, and sat down hard. "He…he can't…he can't…"

"Good reporters have been fired for messing with the corporate masters before," Rhonda muttered darkly. "You know what? Now I believe there's more to this story, Goldie."

People glanced into the room as they passed by. Humiliated, the Newsman rose and slammed the door. To be degraded like that in front of everyone! Gulping, fierce tears wanting to escape from his eyes, Newsie gasped, "My…my reports are not ridiculous! They're not!" He fell into his chair once more, shaking. Suddenly he thought of the Tarot card showing the bully, and Gina's prediction about a cruel humiliation. "Oh…oh frog…he can't…he can't…" Desperately he looked over at Rhonda, still standing tall on the counter.

She shook her head. "We'll fight it, hon, but ya know, money talks louder than the truth too often. Geez, I still can't believe you posed as a health inspector. That's more like Scribbler than you, Newsie! They might actually nail you on that one."

Choking up, he buried his face in both hands. Rhonda pulled out her cell phone and texted one of the contacts she kept in memory. "Get your stuff together," she said to the distraught Muppet. "Security'll be in here to toss us any second."

He rose shakily and pulled his spare coats off their hangers. "Who…who are you calling?"

"Your girl. Tellin' her to meet us at the Muppet Theatre. You should be among friends right now…plus I'm sure alla them will want to know there actually is anti-Muppet discrimination going on. I'll get the MADL people's number next."

"This is complete bull," Newsie spat, pulling the strap for his laptop case securely over his left shoulder.

"You called?" rumbled the security guard. Hard hands grabbed Newsie's elbow and tossed him roughly into the hallway. "Your clearance is revoked. Get out."

"Philistine," Rhonda sniffed, scurrying out of the bull's reach. "Touch me and pull back a bloody hoof, buddy!"

Being Muppethandled wasn't the worst part, though Newsie was sure a bruise would show on his arm; seeing Blanke turning away and shutting the door to his office, on the phone – no doubt with the station's lawyers – wasn't the worst. Having to walk out of the building with every single employee, from the weathergirl to the techs to the receptionist, staring curiously at him every step of the way…that was the worst. He climbed into the cab Rhonda flagged down and turned away from her, wiping the moisture from his eyes. Did the rest of them think the same as Blanke? Was he just a joke to them all? He kept his eyes closed the entire ride to the theatre, holding everything in as best he could.

He wished he'd never asked for a card reading. He wished he'd never conceived the idea of bluffing his way into the Nofrisko office. He wished there really was no such thing as monsters. And more than anything, he wished he could curl up in his beloved's arms and pretend it was all better.

She was waiting for him in the green room, and while Rhonda gathered everyone else around to explain why the normally-sturdy Newsman appeared so upset, Gina took him up into the lighting bay for some privacy, and simply held him, and for a little while he was able to pretend. For a little while.

***

Constanza la Whatnot, huddled tightly into her new leather jacket with the bejeweled outline of a stinkbomb on the back, darted across the darkened plaza to the port-a-potties. Every one she knocked on turned out to be occupied. "Oh come on," she muttered after several minutes' wait. "Hey, I'm as legitimately in need here as any of you unfelted people! You can't deny me a restroom because of my felt!"

A taller girl in line behind her sighed, also shivering and bundled in a heavy coat against the chill night. "Nobody's denying anything. That chili was a bad idea." The formerly-blue Whatnot turned a grim scowl up to the girl, daring her to say anything about the neon-pink splotches decorating her cheeks, but the girl had facial tattoos and multiple piercings and wasn't likely to judge. She gave the little Muppet a wan smile, and nodded across the street. "I heard they set up more toilets over in the alley. You could see if any of those are free, if you don't want to wait."

"That's, like, a long run," Stinkbomb argued, but when the line didn't move one step after another couple of minutes, she blew out an impatient breath and dashed between the tents covering the plaza. A few people still lingered around the food stations, and the cops hadn't yet done anything about the trash-fire in an empty garbage can, so food and getting warm might still be possibilities tonight before she crawled into a cold sleeping bag in her own pup tent; but right now, her most immediate need was that empty sanitation stall, oh good, it was empty! Brightening considerably, Stinkbomb headed right for the port-a-potty.

When she trotted in front of the open manhole, an enormous pair of green, furry hands grabbed her. Her squeak was immediately stifled, and then the only sound in the alley was the scrape of metal on stone as the manhole cover resettled. The group of young men ten feet away arguing over which bank to picket in the morning never saw or heard a thing, never noticed the small blue girl never re-emerged from the alley, and when Bland checked on her tent Saturday morning, he only sighed in discouraged acceptance.

These young people, so undependable, he thought, leaving the few belongings as he found them. Well, joining the Occupiers had been a bit of a long shot anyway… The lawyer checked his phone, seeing he'd missed a few calls, and chided himself for leaving it silenced all night…but then again, a Muppet needed his sleep, didn't he? Forthright Bland called his voicemail and wandered off down Wall Street, passing by the alley where another disappearance had occurred, never thinking to even turn his head.


	25. Chapter 24-1

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (part 1). _In which everyone gets into character for a spooky party._

Emily Bear fluffed out the sheaves of cornstalks she'd just tied to the porch posts, smiling as the sound of a sputtering engine hove around the last bend in the gravel drive. Turning, she dusted her hands on her cheery pumpkin-design apron and watched the old Chevy truck screech to an ungainly halt uncomfortably close to the tractor. Her son clambered down from the passenger side with a distinct air of relief at having survived the trip. The grayish, large-nosed creature behind the wheel turned to yell at the bevy of pigs all clinging to the rails in the back: "We're here!"

"Ma! We made it!" Fozzie announced, eagerly running up for a hug.

"I'm so glad you all could come!" Emily laughed, and swiped Fozzie's hat off to tousle his fur. Embarrassed, he grabbed it and jammed it back on his head. "Well! I hope all of you came ready to work! There's a lot to be done before the other guests arrive!"

One of the pigs snorted as he looked around: the tractor barn and grain silo painted a traditional red, the white farmhouse with its cheery red-and-yellow check curtains, and the young ornamental maples in the front yard seemed to elicit more contempt than pleasure. "Thought I went to the city to get off the farm," he muttered. However, the other pigs all snorked and sniffed the fresh air scented with turning leaves and grunted their approval.

"Ma, this is Beauregard, I dunno if you remember…"

"Of course! Hardest worker at the Muppet Theatre!" Emily beamed, and Beau blushed and took off his cap politely. "Nice to see you porkers as well! Now, we have all these decorations to get up, and solar lights to set up in the corn maze, and the games will need to be organized and I expect you all to referee them," the elderly bear proclaimed. The pigs looked resigned, nodding, so Emily smiled and added, "There's a mess of corn pancakes and stewed apples that'll be waiting as your breakfast just as soon as you—"

The yard cleared instantly, and within seconds there were pigs on the porch roof tacking up swags of fall leaves, setting jack-o'lanterns in every window, and hustling armfuls of solar globes on stakes into the nearby cornfield. Emily grinned. "Works every time."

"Uh, what can I do, ma'am?" Beau asked.

"Well Mr Beauregard, I have a special job just for you," Emily said. "I need you to take that wheelbarrow there into the woods and gather up the biggest logs you can carry for the bonfire tonight! We'll set it up right over there." She pointed to a flat, cleared area down near the cow-pond, perhaps fifty yards from the outbuildings. "There's a chainsaw in the barn. Do you know how to use one?"

"Oh, sure!" Beau replied, eyes alight with the joy of responsibility. "I'll build you the biggest, bestest bonfire you've ever seen!"

"Ma, I don't know dat Beau is the best person for the job," Fozzie whispered, but the janitor was already sliding the barn door wide and rummaging loudly through the tool area.

"Pish posh, son. Come on now; here's a list of the games we came up with for people to play. Some are for daytime and some are for night-time; I want you to gather supplies and put them down here by the porch for the pigs to set up, all righty?" Smiling at the bustle all around, Emily went inside to the kitchen to fix the promised breakfast, humming Van Morrison's "Moondance" as she set about her task. Fozzie sighed, reading over the list. Most of the games he was familiar with: pumpkin bowling, pumpkin relay race, apple bobbing…he followed his mother inside, puzzled.

"Ma? What's dis one?"

She glanced at the paper. "The Goblin City? Oh, that's just a fun name for the candy hunt. That one'll be in the cellar. You just need to set up those cutouts and hide the candy." Emily nodded over at a stack of cardboard goblins painted in various hideous poses.

"Oh, okay," Fozzie sighed. "For a minute dere I was worried dis was gonna be something scary!"

Emily cackled. "Oh no, if you want scary, wait 'til you see the corn maze! That'll be a real challenge for your friends!"

Fozzie groaned softly, but decided he probably didn't want to know. He was about to go back to his assignment when another question hit him. "Uh, Ma? What do you mean, games that we came up with? I don't remember helping with this list!"

"No, son. That would be myself and Dora."

"Dora? Dora Bruin?"

"Did you forget she was coming tonight?"

"I was kinda hoping she had to cancel," Fozzie sighed.

Emily shot him a wry smile as she stirred the batter. "Tsk, tsk! She was very insistent about it! I had to promise her you'd be here!"

"You what? Oh, Maaaaa! Last time I saw her, I…I…dere was all dat stuff with the Wormwood Soames story, and…and…oh I'm so ashamed," Fozzie moaned.

Emily patted his shoulder. "Yes, you made a total fool of yourself. Luckily she still thinks you're cute! Better get started on those games, son. Lots of work to do!" Calmly she shooed him out of the kitchen, singing happily: "Oh, with the moon and the stars up above, it's a marvelous night for a romance…"

Wishing he'd suddenly come down with cluckitis or something equally unrecognizable, Fozzie trudged outside, staring at the dashing, jumping, hammering, snorting pigs, completely unable now to share their enthusiasm. Why on earth did Dora want to see him again? Unhappily certain he'd manage to make an even bigger fool of himself with the costume he'd chosen, he sighed and tried to make sense of the jumble of party supplies.

***

Gina found her Newsman sitting glumly on the bed. "Sweetie? You're not dressed to go? We need to get moving; we said we'd meet at the rental car place at eleven-thirty."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I just…I can't…" he sighed. "I'm not really feeling up for a party."

Gina knelt at the bedside to stroke his cheek. "Look. You need to get out and have some fun. Trust me on this; a party is exactly the right move."

He raised his eyes to meet hers, frowning. "How can I be expected to enjoy anything right now? I'm on suspension, my station is a pawn of that creepy snack company, there are monsters below the city planning something horrible, my aunt is on life support, I still have no clue where my cousin is…"

Gina drew him into her embrace, and whispered in his ear: "Which is exactly why you need to just step away from it all for a little while. Do you know what Gypsies do when there's a death or a disaster?" He looked at her uncertainly, and she explained, "They have a celebration."

"Because things are bad? Seems like a form of denial!"

"Because they're still alive, and they have one another," Gina corrected softly. She kissed the tip of his nose and caressed his unhappily set jaw. "And you have your friends, and you have that lawyer who's going to help with the idiots at your station, and you have me."

Feeling guilty, Newsie gave in to a kiss. "You really think this will help?"

"You're wound up so tight right now I'm surprised breakfast didn't bounce back out of your mouth," Gina teased gently. He frowned again, and she continued to stroke his chin and cheeks. "Aloysius…please trust me. Taking a day off from all this crap will be useful. Then tomorrow you'll be refreshed and ready to head into the storm again."

"I thought the forecast for tomorrow was clear skies," Newsie argued, puzzled.

Gina sighed. "Do you know I adore you?"

He nodded, giving in, hugging her in return. "I love you…okay. If you really think this is the right thing to do…"

"You. Need. A day. Off," Gina insisted, kissing him for emphasis with every word. Blushing, he wriggled out of her arms before their schedule was thrown off any more, looking around for his comb. She smiled. "Wanna wear your costume up, or change once we get there?"

"I'll wait," he said immediately, and she laughed.

"Suit yourself. I'm going all out!" She pulled her tattered, wispy gray gown off its hanger, shrugging it on over the full silk slip which would protect her from the chill. Though the air felt mild outside, Bear Corners was supposed to be cooler than the city today and tonight. "I hope that Blander guy remembers to get a costume."

After their meeting with the lawyer early this morning here at the apartment, Gina had felt obligated to invite the dull Whatnot along with them; he'd looked so wistful at the mention of an actual party. Newsie grimaced, pulling on a dark red sweater over his dress shirt. "I hope he doesn't hit up everyone there for donations."

Gina laughed. Newsie looked up at her, always entranced by that sound: how could she keep such a light heart in the face of all these woes? She saw his expression, and gave him a deep kiss. Smiling again at the way her Muppet melted for such demonstrations of affection, Gina tossed out her hair, settled the torn, ethereal veil atop her head and struck a melodramatic pose of anguish. "Lost! So lost and alone, woe, woe, tragedy…"

"Not alone," Newsie muttered, enjoying her antics a little despite his anxiety.

"That's right," Gina said, suddenly hoisting him by the arms onto the bed so he could reach her lips, and pulling him close. "You're not." She kissed him until she finally coaxed a smile from him, and grinned back. "Come on, Gloomy Journalist. Move that cute skinny fuzzy butt!"

"Gina," he protested, but gathered up his costume in a paper sack and pulled his shoes on. He volunteered to carry the two-tiered container of mini cupcakes along with his overnight bag; Gina hefted the pack with their bedroll and her own things, disregarding the incongruity of it over her dress. They received a few odd looks on the street and on the airport shuttle bus, which Gina cheerfully grinned at and Newsie did his best to ignore. Once at the rental car counter, Gina took care of the paperwork. A large rat snorted his annoyance:

"'Bout time you got here! I'm getting' hungry and I need road trip snacks!"

Newsie stared at him. "Rizzo? What are you doing here?"

"I figured someone needed a party date," the rat smirked just as Rhonda emerged from the ladies' room.

She noted Newsie's incredulous look and shook her head. "Trust me, it was not my idea! He claims he read something that made him decide he'd been 'neglecting' me too long."

"Hey, I'm a rat, you're a rat, dere's gonna be food," Rizzo said. "Sounds like da perfect date ta me!"

"Okay, I has the travel musics already," a loud shrimp said, marching up to the counter. He plunked down a duffel bag bearing a designer label. "Are we ready?"

"Newsie? How many people did you invite?" Gina wondered.

"Just Rhonda!" he protested. "You asked that Bland guy; I certainly don't recall either of us asking a crustacean along." He glared at Pepe.

"Well, maybe that's because jou has taken too many direct hits to jour pointy head okay," the prawn cackled. "Of course I am riding with jou! Jou needs a little party atmospherics with this group, trust me."

"Animal tried to eat him when he got on da Mayhem's bus," Rizzo snickered.

"I'm sure there's room enough in the backseat for you both to sit way on the other side. Far from me," Rhonda grumbled.

"Oh, wonderful, you're on time," the blue Whatnot lawyer said, ambling over. He already had on his costume: a large orange beak was attached over his nose, a cap with blue feathers stuck jauntily up in stark contrast to his bored expression, and a short cape covered in blue feathers lay over his suit-coat as though it wasn't sure what it was doing there. He regarded the rats and the prawn dubiously.

"Jou gots to be kidding, okay," Pepe said. "He's coming with us?"

Rizzo shook his head. "I call shotgun!"

Gina frowned at him. "No. Newsie has shotgun. He's navigating. I'm sure all of you can make do in the back seat."

Rizzo sighed. "Please tell me ya didn't get a compact."

Pepe gestured at them all impatiently. "Can we just get this trip moving, okay? I made a special mix CD just for jous! Party times, okay!" As the group headed for the car lot to find their reservation, the prawn sang happily and not quietly enough: "There is a monster in my pants, okay, and he does a scary dance; when he comes into the room, all the womens start to swoons…"

"Can we listen to NPR instead?" Newsie grumbled.

"Shotgun gets to call radio as well," Gina assured him, and did her best to block out the questionable tune Pepe persisted in cheerfully singing.

***

"Kermieeeee! Are you dressed yet?" Piggy sang out. Kermit sighed, eyeing his faux-bronze armor breastplate and leather skirt unhappily.

"Well, I guess," he grumbled. Piggy popped her head out of the bathroom-area curtains.

"Whaddaya mean, you guess?" Then she saw Kermit had indeed put on his entire costume, and squealed with appreciation. "Oh Kermie! Vous are so very…dashing!"

"I feel ridiculous," the frog muttered. "And these sandals are really hard on the flippers, Piggy!"

"But Kermie, surely vous appreciate my homage to the late, great, exquisite Elizabeth Taylor?" Piggy made a minor adjustment to her gown and stepped into the main room of their bedroom suite, lifting one hand as though expecting him to bow and kiss it. Her gown, not only pure white but of actual papyrus linen, draped wonderfully over her full frame. The elaborate headdress may have had real lapis lazuli and gold; Kermit gulped, deciding he didn't want to know. Piggy batted her heavily-made-up eyes at him, and Kermit gulped again.

"Er, Piggy, are you…are you wearing anything under…"

"Kermit! One does not ask these things of an actress!" the pig huffed.

Kermit felt his cheeks warming. "Uh, no, uh, I only ask because, well, it might be cold up there, and –"

"Then you'll just have to stay…very…close," Piggy purred, sidling up to the froggy Roman soldier and stroking the purple sash he wore over the light armor. "Burton was never handsomer, my prince." She favored him with a teasing kiss.

"Aw," Kermit murmured, all objections forgotten momentarily. "Piggy…"

From the grand staircase just outside the master suite, Scooter called, "Hey, are you guys ready to go? I've got the car warmed up right out front, but the traffic warden isn't going to be happy if we take much longer!"

Piggy glanced in the mirror, turned herself this way and that, and decided she looked properly queenly. "Well?" Kermit asked, itching to get on with the road trip…or maybe just itching in all that hard-cured leather.

His wife smiled at him, and lowered her lashes to give him a very suggestive stare just like the great Liz would've done. "Lead on, my bold conqueror," she said, her voice husky.

"Aw, geez, Piggy," Kermit groaned, taking her hand in one of his and grabbing his overnight satchel in the other. "Uh, you remember how small Fozzie's mother's place is, right? We're not going to have any privacy!"

She smiled wickedly at him, sashaying down the stairs of the townhouse. "Oh. What a shame. I guess that means you're just going to have to admire my…costume…without ever knowing what I have on under it!" She wiggled her rear deliberately, murmuring over her shoulder, "Trick…or treat!" As Kermit stifled a groan and hurried after her, she changed tone completely to yell downstairs: "Hey Scooter! Make sure ya get all the bags this time! I need both hairdryers and the curler!"

We're only going to be there one night, Kermit thought, but then brightened a bit, and smiled at the saucy pig. ONLY one night. Trick or treat, huh? We'll see about that!

On the street in front of their building, he smiled at the girl helping Scooter load all of Piggy's accoutrements into the trunk of a luxury sedan. "Ha ha! You look great, Sara!"

The redhead brushed her tangle of frizzed, curly hair out of her gleaming green eyes to grin at the frog. "Like it? Took me forever to get it to curl right!"

"Hmm. That's not a bad look for you, dear," Piggy judged. Then she saw Scooter, and chuckled. "Oh I see! Giving us some competition for the couples costume, hm?"

Scooter grinned; his hair had been temporarily dyed dark brown, and he wore a traditional school robe which matched Sara's. "Hey, Miss Piggy, wanna see my wand?"

Piggy stared at him. Scooter produced a twiggy-looking stick and waved it at the pile of luggage. "Wingardium leviosa!"

Sara gave him a cute scowl. "I keep telling you, it's not leviosa, it's levio-sahh!" The pair giggled, and as Piggy settled herself and her priceless costume in the back seat, Sara continued under her breath, "And I wish it did work…"

"Go climb in; I'll get the rest," Scooter muttered back, still smiling.

Shaking his head tolerantly, Kermit hopped into the backseat, noting his pig was still being terribly coy. So she thought this party was an excuse to toy with him, did she? He hummed softly, considering the possibilities for tricks if she was going to taunt him with an unattainable treat…

Scooter pulled the car into the slow flow north toward the Washington Bridge. "Hey, chief. Did you hear anything else yet about that anti-discrimination thing?"

Rousing reluctantly from his devious green plotting, the frog leaned forward to talk with his second-in-command. "No, but I know that law firm was meeting with the Newsman this morning."

"It seems weird that anyone would dump on you guys for being Muppets," Sara mused.

Scooter nodded. "Tell me about it! I guess those lawyers were right. Glad we're doing the charity walk after all, at that rate."

Piggy sniffed. "No one has ever discriminated against moi… They wouldn't dare!"

Kermit chuckled wryly. "No, I'm sure they wouldn't."

Sara wriggled half-around to address Kermit directly. "So it's true, then? That news station really did try to fire the Newsman over nothing?"

Kermit shrugged. "I only heard about it third-hand. I was with your hubby, remember?" The frog and his assistant had stepped wearily off a small plane late last night; Clifford had personally been there to hand the keys to the theatre back to the former gofer and lie about how much fun he'd had being in command.

"Kermie, you never did say where you found us a cabin to film," Piggy said.

The frog nervously adjusted the tunic under his breastplate. "Geez, is this thing wool? It's awfully scratchy…"

"Well, uh, it's not so much a cabin," Scooter jumped in.

"Oh," Piggy said, mystified. "But…are we changing the script? I thought the whole point of the setting was to give the tagline some meaning? The, what was it…"

"'Ham in a Cabin'?" Sara piped up. Before Piggy's startled look could transform into something more dangerous, she explained, "A famous horror-movie critic called the original haunted-shack-in-the-woods film 'Spam in a cabin,' but, um, obviously, you're not—"

"Not going to stoop to that level," Kermit took up the slack quickly.

"Oh. But of course," Piggy agreed. "So, ah, what did you two find after roaming all over the great white north?"

Kermit sighed, sinking back into the plush cushions. "Well, we found a porch at one place, and a great barn at another…"

Piggy raised herself up to stare at him. "Are you saying we're going to film the exterior shots all over the place? Kermie! That will mean I'll have to have a driver full-time if we keep moving my trailer from location to location! Can we afford that?"

Kermit scrunched his face. "Uh, Piggy…I don't think we'll be lugging along your trailer everywhere, no."

"Ohhh," she said, smiling. "So we'll be sharing a trailer? How cozy!"

Though married, Kermit had long ago learned the expediency and opportunities to actually get work done that allowing his wife her own private trailer on-set afforded. "Er, well, not exactly, Piggy; the studio wouldn't okay an expense like that…"

Piggy, nonplussed, tried again. "Ah…hotel rooms? Please tell me you found something at least four-star within driving distance…"

"Try tents," Scooter said. Silence fell inside the car.

"Tents?" Piggy asked finally.

Sara looked at her husband. "What say a little traveling music?"

"What say," Scooter muttered. The indie radio station almost drowned out the sounds of outrage from the back seat. 


	26. Chapter 24-2

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (part two). _In which everyone joins in the fun whether they want to or not. Also, Bunsen sings._

Gina knocked on the door of the bedroom they'd be sharing with the frog and pig, the gofer and his lady, and Floyd and Janice, Mrs Bear having prudently put all the steady couples in one room while everyone else spread all over the farmhouse and into the barn. "Newsie…"

"I look ridiculous," came the muffled response.

"So does everyone else; it wouldn't be Halloween if you couldn't be silly. Come on, get out here! The games are starting!"

"I look ridiculous."

Sighing, Gina opened the door. A large raven of black velvet and real, glossy black feathers stood unhappily next to a small vanity, looking at himself in the mirror. Only a little golden-yellow felt showed beneath the costume. Gina tucked his sleeves into the gauntlet-like gloves, fluffed out his feathery tunic, and tweaked the beaked mask on his face. "It would look less silly if you took the glasses off," she pointed out.

"Then I won't be able to see four inches past my nose!"

Gina thought that was a generous estimate, but didn't say so. "My love…I won't let you walk into anything. This is supposed to be a couples costume, remember?"

Newsie sighed, relinquishing his specs, nervously watching his now-blurry beloved tuck them safely into a blurry case by the blurry bedside. "Remind me what we're doing?"

"Well, your role is fairly easy. Just say 'Nevermore' a lot, and perch over people if you get the chance." She giggled at his scowl, obvious even under the mask from the way it scrunched. "Mine's a little harder. I have to be tragic and lost."

"I never understood that about that poem," Newsie complained. "If the narrator lost this Lenore person, why didn't he just go looking for her instead of sitting around moping with his bust of Pallas?"

Gina hugged him; he returned it, confused. "That's my practical Muppet… Come on, handsome, let's get out there and have some fun!"

Abashedly, his fingers fumbled into her hand. "Don't let go."

"I won't. Don't you either, except to flap now and then!"

Their entrance on the front lawn was greeted with cheers and laughter. Gina curtsied, then rushed over to Scooter. "Lost! Woe, woe, I am flitting endlessly on the night's Plutonian shore…"

"Nevermore!" Newsie muttered, which provoked laughs all around.

"Who says my Newsie doesn't get comic timing?" Gina whispered to him, smiling. Feeling relieved as he understood no one was actually mocking him, Newsie peered around.

"Looks like a lot of people were able to attend," he remarked, recognizing a small green frog hopping by with a microphone and a fedora and trenchcoat five sizes too large. "Kermit! Nice to see you in the old frog-on-the-scene outfit!"

"Oh, hi, Newsman," a thin voice peeped in reply. "Wow, you thought I was Uncle Kermit? Terrific! I am so gonna win the 'Completely Unrecognizable' costume category!" Robin bounced over to the side of the house, where a bowling lane of sorts had been constructed from haybales, with long gourds standing up at the far end to serve as the pins. "Fozzie! Hey Fozzie! Guess who I am!"

There were quite a lot of people, as the reporter had put it, milling around the grounds. A wild jam winding down with thumping drums and a screeching guitar announced the arrival of the decrepit but somehow still mobile bus bringing the Electric Mayhem, along with Nigel and Rowlf. As they disembarked, Newsie tugged Gina's ragged dress sleeve. "Uh…I know that's the band, but are they all right? They seem to be moving a little, er, under the influence…"

Gina snickered. "Nope. They're just dead."

"What?" He realized it was some sort of costume, and relaxed. "Oh."

"More like no longer pushin' the pedals or the daisies," Dr Teeth cackled as he shambled past. "Friends, I am indubitably in need of cranial refreshment!"

"Braaaiiinnns," Animal growled, getting a little too into his part. The entire Mayhem sported pale felt, torn clothing, and fake wounds; Floyd set aside his bass and tucked one arm inside his costume to better display the bony hand dangling loosely out of his jacket sleeve. Janice shuffled beside him, her head cocked over at an angle, dead leaves and realistic dirt matting her normally shiny hair.

"Dratted walking dead," Nigel drawled, hot on their trail with a bright pink water assault rifle, his sheriff's get-up making the group costume's theme current.

Zoot shambled behind them all, still carrying his sax. "Wuh-huh-huh! Hey Zoot! What kinda zombie are you?" Lew Zealand asked.

The saxman paused to look blankly at him from behind his customary shades. "Zombie? I don't do mixed drinks, man. Too heavy!"

Rowlf, looking comfortable in a long khaki coat and rumpled tie, scratched his ear in puzzlement at the fish-thrower. "Uh, Lew? Sorry, man, but I don't get your costume. What's the joke?"

"Oh, uh, it's not a costume!" Lew grinned, equally warm in all-over footie pajamas in a fishie print, with fat plush sharks cushioning his feet. "I was told this was a sleepover!"

"Bogey?" Gina guessed, looking at the dog's simple, if slept-in-looking clothing.

"Hardly," Rowlf said, slipping into a passable imitation of another famous detective. "I had my suspicions about that fish-flingin' guy. Never trust the guy in the room who looks too comfortable. Oh," he said, turning back to Lew, "just one more thing…"

Gina laughed, and Newsie caught the reference. "He was a good man," he told Rowlf seriously, and the dog nodded.

"That he was. Did you catch the other homage over there?" He tilted his nose in the direction of the Egyptian queen and her Roman lover.

"Holy cow. She does one heck of a Liz," Gina said. "Who did the costume?"

"Dunno, but I bet it cost as much as ol' King Tut's bedroom! Hey, Clifford, gonna bust some spooks for us?"

Newsie squinted at the odd coverall and some sort of pack on the purple Muppet's straight back. "Uh…are you supposed to be an exterminator?"

Clifford laughed. "Yeah, man. Somebody saw a cockroach up on twelve!"

"Funny," snorted a tiny bug, trotting past in a Ziggy Stardust costume.

Newsie walked along with Gina toward Cleopigtra and Frog Antony. "I don't get it," he muttered at her, but she shushed him.

"Miss Piggy, that costume is amazing," Gina said, and Piggy gave a queenly nod. "And Kermit! Uh…that skirt really shows off your legs!"

Kermit scrunched his nose. "So I've been told about twenty times already. Thanks. Uh, Newsman, any progress on your complaint? Will there be a formal hearing of some sort? You know I or anyone here would be willing to speak up for you, if you need us."

Newsie thanked him. "Mr Blander says I definitely have a case. He's going to serve my boss and the KRAK management with a notice of intent on Monday." He sighed. "I really hope that fixes things without having to go through civil court."

A detailed discussion of the whole debacle for the benefit of Kermit and Scooter began, and after a minute, Gina squeezed Newsie's arm. "Cutie, you go ahead and talk shop; I'm going to find us something to snack on, okay? I promise I'll be right back."

"Me too," Sara said, brushing a kiss over Scooter's mouth, and after a second Piggy strolled after them.

"Moi thought this was supposed to be a party," she sniffed. "Why do they always have to drag business into things?"

"Well, it is pretty serious," Gina pointed out. "I'm hoping that idiot station manager realizes what a bad move it would be to fire Newsie. Honestly, I wish Newsie would go to some other station! One not run by corporate cretins!"

They browsed the long table set near the back stoop leading to the kitchen. Every conceivable fall-themed treat seemed to be represented on the groaning board: toffee-coated apples, pumpkin cupcakes, candy-corn parfaits, fresh grapes and figs and sharp cheeses jostled for space with marshmallow ghosts, little hot dog mummies, chocolate bat cookies and spidery candies. Gina shook her head in amazement as she picked over the offerings. "Nice! Looks like the great hall at Hogwarts!"

Sara smiled at her, and said, "It's nice to meet someone else who stands by their Muppet."

"Oh, you're Scooter's wife, right?" They exchanged pleasantries a moment, then Gina sighed deeply. "Do you ever have to deal with people giving you grief about being with a Muppet?"

Sara considered it. "Not really, but I know not everyone understood Scooter choosing me."

Gina's gaze swept once over the young woman only slightly shorter than her, then looked back at the Muppets in deep conversation on the leaf-littered lawn. "Because of the height thing?"

Sara giggled. "Uh…no. Because I'm more outgoing than he is."

They laughed together. "Same here." Gina watched her Newsman gesturing broadly at a perturbed Kermit; in his costume, the resemblance to a raven attacking some smaller competitor for the same prey was undeniable…and unintentionally comic. She shook her head. "Why is it, do you think, they all seem younger than they are?"

"It's the felt," Sara asserted. "No wrinkles."

"Trust me, it's even worse with the frog," Piggy assured them both.

Curious, Gina tentatively asked, "Have you and Kermit ever taken any flak for being a couple?"

"Well, I can't say we haven't raised a few eyebrows…except on his side of the family…" Piggy mused, loading up a plate with the least outré of the spooky-themed foods.

"Frogs are more tolerant?"

"No eyebrows," Piggy snickered, and all three of the girls burst into loud laughter.

Newsie looked over at the sound, wondering what had caused such merriment. "It's good to see everyone getting along," Scooter said.

"That's right," Kermit agreed. "We're all friends here. Just try to set aside your problems for the night and enjoy the party," he advised Newsie.

"All friends except maybe that guy," Scooter mumbled, shaking his head at the sight of the blue Whatnot cornering Sam the Eagle; the bird, for once, seemed very discomfited to be on the other side of a lecture. "I know he's representing you and all, Newsie, but he's really very…bland…"

Kermit stared at Sam's costume. "Why is Sam dressed as a lizard with an American flag?"

"I'm not going to ask," Scooter said.

A rat in a gold lamé dress with platinum straight hair appeared on the voting table nearby, sipping from an orange martini glass, her enormous shades balanced by her spiraling earrings. "I did ask. The eagle is apparently under the misconception that one of the presidential candidates is an amphibian. I laughed, and he didn't see why it was funny."

Newsie knew that voice. "Rhonda? Er…who are you, some sort of spacegirl?"

The rat struck a pose worthy of the pig. "Honey, I was born this way! 'Scuse me. I heard there was a contest; I'm gonna vote for the zombies for Best Group Costume." She filled out a slip of paper and stuffed it in the appropriate ballot box.

Scooter nudged Newsie. "That reminds me – go find Fozzie! Or Mrs Bear; they mentioned they wanted you to announce the results later tonight after everyone's voted on all the costumes!"

"M-me? Er…all right," Newsie agreed, surprised. "Has anyone seen either of the Bears?"

***

Emily Bear was in the kitchen at that moment, looking down cheerfully at the blue chicken in the funny white hat and skirt. "My goodness! How adorable! Is that Camilla?"

The chicken clucked agreeably. The smell of baking apples had drawn her into the bright, old-fashioned farmhouse. "And who are you supposed to be, dear?" Emily continued; Camilla clucked again. "Oh…I'm afraid I never watched it, but I know Fozzie has an old videotape of his favorite Smurf episodes somewhere still! It's so nice to see you again! Now where's your…your…whatever he is?" The matronly bear chuckled at her own awkwardness. "I never know what you young people call that sort of thing these days; I know you're not married, but 'boyfriend' seems too casual…" The chicken offered a suggestion, and the bear nodded. "Significant 'Other'! That sounds perfect. So isn't he with you?"

Camilla explained in a few short squawks the basics of the situation. Emily frowned. "My, my! Well of course you can use the television in the front room…I'll just have that nice Beauregard carry it out to the coop for you. There's an outlet outside; we'll just unplug some of the Halloween lights so you can use it while your honey's show is on." Camilla thanked her. Emily yanked on a rope dangling from the ceiling; although it didn't appear to be hooked to anything, a train whistle screamed, and within seconds Beau popped into the back door, dressed in blue-and-white-ticked overalls with a matching cap.

"You called?"

"Oh, Conductor Beau! Would you take the TV out to the chicken coop and plug it in for this young lady? She shouldn't have to miss her daredevil performing tonight," Emily said, and Beau nodded, tried to salute, looked confused, then yanked on the train whistle with a smile.

"Comin' right up! Next stop, happy coopers!"

Link Hogthrob sauntered in, led by his deeply sniffing snout. "What is that wonderful smell? Oh, hello, Mrs Bear! Wanna go for a spin?" Grinning, the leather-clad boar leaned against the kitchen table, cocking his biker hat low over his brow – then lost his balance and landed ungracefully on his generous rear.

"Well, if it isn't the Rebel Without a Clue," Emily laughed, helping him up. "James Dean, am I right?"

"Well, yes, but for you, it's 'Jimmy,'" Link murmured, suavely puffing up his shoulders in the traditional studded jacket.

"Link sweetie, I don't think you really want people to call you Jimmy Dean," the bear advised, turning back to her cooking.

"Why not?"

"Ach, again vit the pork jokes," Dr Strangepork huffed, trotting into the kitchen, Annie Sue in tow. "Vat do you tink of our get-up, Frau Bear? I tink ve are sure to vin!" The white lab coat and his usual round spectacles didn't immediately clue Emily in, but then she saw the tall black bouffant with streaks of white on the young sow, and started laughing.

"Dr Frankenswine, I presume?" Emily asked, and Strangepork kissed the back of her hand. "Well! Such nice manners!"

"Such nice cinnamon spices!" Strangepork returned, licking his lips. "I love a woman who gets her hands dirty in the kitchen!"

"Hey, I didn't get to lick her hands," Link complained, trying to do so. Emily swatted his fingers with the back of a wooden spoon.

"If you have to be in here, make yourselves useful! Frankenswine, stir this; Link, please fetch me another jug of cider from the cellar; Annie dear, would you help me make these popovers?"

"I just love home cooking!" Annie Sue exclaimed, tying on an apron over her ragged gown.

Link pouted. "The cellar? But…but…what if it's dark? What if there are…spiders?"

"I'll feed you to them if you don't hurry up!" Emily teased, but Link fled, wailing about dark scary cellar spiders. The bear sighed as the other two pigs snorted with amusement. "Honestly…Beau! I need you, dear!" She yanked the train whistle again, and plunged into her cooking with a smile. A bustling kitchen and a home full of Muppets, though a lot of work, was so contagiously cheerful; she certainly wasn't going to let one cowardly pig spoil the fun…or the mulled cider.

***

"Okay, girls, okay, everybody gets a turn," Fozzie chided, and the chickens stopped clucking at one another and drew straws to determine who would bowl first. Fozzie checked the basket of small candy pouches behind him; he was supposed to hand them out to anyone who bowled a strike, but he was wary of the rats he'd seen lurking around trying to gobble them up before that happened. One of the chickens clucked something about his scarf, and he frowned at her. "Hey, come on, this is classic! I mean, if you're gonna talk costumes, what da heck are you all supposed to be anyway?" He gestured at the flockful of colorful-spandex-jumpsuit-clad chickens, all wearing ponytails and lots of sparkly jewelry.

"Bawwwk. James Bawwk," a brown rooster announced, stepping up to the throw line.

"No, I'm Bawwk," a black rooster argued.

"Wait, wait, I get it," Fozzie said. He pointed at the brown one. "You're, lemme see, Cawjer Moore?" The rooster nodded, puffing out his chestfeathers past the confines of the tuxedo. "So you must be…"

"Sean Cawnnery," Blackie said, leaning coolly on a haybale.

"Oh," Fozzie muttered. "I woulda thought Daniel Crawg… So, so who are the girls?"

The chickens clucked, each striking a daring pose. Fozzie's jaw dropped. "Poultry Galore…? Guys, come on! Dis is a family party!"

"Cute outfit, Fozzie," a sultry voice behind him made the bear whirl around, nearly stumbling over the nine-foot-long scarf. "I didn't know you were a Whovian."

Fozzie stared at the other bear; she really had grown up a lot since she'd been the cub next door…and the low-cut, Gothic fairy costume with its short skirt and playful butterfly-wings didn't help him pull his jaw off the ground. "Wha…ha…who?"

"It's Dora, silly," the girlish bear giggled. She wrapped a long brown curl around one delicate claw, smiling at him. "Don't you recognize me?"

"Wha—of course! Dora! Hi!" The chickens clucked loudly; the brown rooster had just bowled a perfect strike – perfect, anyway, if one discounted the pins knocking into one another, wobbling around wildly, bouncing the bowling-ball-pumpkin into the air and then finally falling over at the same instant as Blackie when the pumpkin crashed onto his head. Distractedly Fozzie awarded the brown rooster a bag of gummi pumpkins. "I, uh, it, it's really great to see you again!" Fozzie finally stammered. Dora stepped closer, flipping up the ends of the scarf.

"Very cute. So which was your favorite monster, the Daleks or the Cybermen?" she asked. Fozzie, trying to formulate a sentence of some kind in his short-circuited brain, was interrupted by the rooster tugging at his coat-hem. He swapped out the gummi pumpkins for a bag of candy corn, and the contented rooster moved back to watch the jumpsuited chickens struggle with the ball as a pig at the end of the lane reset the gourd pins.

"Uh…wha…uh…honestly, I thought both of them were too scary," Fozzie admitted. "I liked K-9."

Dora laughed. "Yeah, have to go with the robot dog. Do you like my costume?"

"It's great," Fozzie said immediately. "Uh…is it…a fairy?"

"The color doesn't give it away?" Dora asked, turning so he could see the extremely close-fitting dark blue minidress from all angles, which didn't ease Fozzie's nerves at all. Seeing he didn't understand, Dora smiled and leaned close to him. "From Pinocchio! I'm the Blue Fairy. Want me to make you a real boy?" Grinning, she tapped him lightly on the nose with her star-tipped wand.

"Wah…aaaaaahhhhhave you met everyone else? I don't think you really had the chance to last time," Fozzie gulped, retreating to the front yard, a grinning fairy bear following fast on his tucked tail.

At the bowling contest, the chickens looked after the departing bears, then at one another. Shrugging, a chicken clutched the pumpkin stem in her beak, ran to the line and released it: it knocked down four pins. The rooster crowed, and awarded her a little bag of Smarties. The next chicken forgot to let go of the stem, and scored a strike, feathers poufing everywhere, to the loud enjoyment of the others, and the rooster started tossing candy bags at everyone; the pig pin-setter grunted a complaint until a bag was tossed his way. "Mini Reeses! Sweet!"

***

Newsie flapped his arms at a couple of rats dressed in overalls. "Nevermore!" he rasped.

"Agh! M-m-m-mario!" the rat in green overalls cried, clutching at the rat in red overalls.

"Oh knock it off, willya? Dere's no way we're winnin'. Let's go raid da buffet," the other rat suggested.

"You're getting into the spirit of it," Gina praised her Muppet, offering him another cup of hot mulled cider. Nodding thanks, he downed the drink, grateful for its warmth; the day, though clear, had turned chilly, and a light breeze seemed to find every tiny chink in his feathered armor. "Your friends are definitely performers; I've never seen so many great costumes at one party, even the last one the Sosilly guys threw!"

"I wonder where Rizzo and Pepe went," Newsie said. "For all that bragging about who was going to win Best Costume, I've yet to see either of them."

"Speak of the devil," Gina giggled. Newsie turned to see the Swedish Chef yelling and throwing random kitchen implements around; everyone nearby ducked. A meat tenderizer nearly missed Newsie's beak. Red horns and a pointy tail stuck out of their appropriate places, but otherwise the Chef looked as he always did. "Wow…never seen him so angry," Gina mused.

Hearing her, the Chef stopped, leaning up to murmur conspiratorially: "Nooo, em nut ongry! Em der Gurdun Ramseyseysey, sey, sey!" He waved a pitchfork at the rats on the outdoor food spread. "Hey! Nooo habben der crème broolee mit unfer du bloogen-torchen!" Grabbing a small blowtorch, he flamed the dessert stand. A crisped rat blinked astonished at him as the Chef, still in character, continued his rant: "Whereun yoo no der lernun cooken-frooken!"

"Got it," Gina giggled.

"I don't get it," Newsie muttered. "And now the popovers are all fried-overs…"

"Check it out. Dueling Jacks," Gina said, pointing out Rizzo and Pepe glaring at one another on the top step of the porch.

"Oh jou has got to be kidding," Pepe groaned. "Jou doesn't even have a bottle okay!"

"You call those dreadlocks?" Rizzo demanded. "Come on! And my mascara is much better dan yours!" The rat and the shrimp both sported black dreads poking out of brown bandanas, eye makeup, and garish pirate outfits. Rizzo waved his cutlass at Pepe. "Dis was my idea foist!"

"It so was not, okay! Jou know that story about escaping the desert island riding on the backs of two sea turtles?" Pepe smirked at the rat. "That was not in the original script! Where do jou thinks Johnny Depp got the idea already my friend?"

"You so did not ride sea turtles off a desert island!"

"Well, okay, so it was only one sea turtle; his name was Jorge. The point is I am a much better Captain Jack than jou!"

"On guard!" Rizzo growled, and a swordfight ensued, the tiny combatants running up the sheaves of corn, swooping from swags of tied leaves, and finally trying to keep their balance on a large pumpkin as it rolled down the steps and off across the yard, aluminum swords clashing repeatedly.

"Drama queens," Rhonda snorted. "Hey, check it out! The new kid made it!"

A beautiful Auburn roadster pulled serenely into the drive, blocking the path from the party to the porch. A short Muppet waved enthusiastically from the back seat; a purple tuxedo clothed him and a bluish-gray, curved nose stuck out from the hat tied to his head. "Wow! I'm really here! Everyone's here! Oh wow!"

Seeing the new arrival, Kermit tried to get everyone's attention. "Hey everybody, look who's here! It's Wa—"

"I know, I know, settle down now," Wayne said, stepping out of the driver's seat and sticking out his meager chest. The long black wig, fake mustache, and love beads dangling around his neck looked as incongruous on the singer as the bell bottoms and Indian blouse. "That's right, I am here at last! You may now begin the celebration!"

"Cripes, Wayne, he didn't mean you," Wanda sighed, shaking her extra-long, straight wig out of her face. Her slit-thigh, slinky dress fluttered in the breeze as she helped the kid down from the back seat. "Come on, kiddo. This'll be fun."

"Oh you bet it will!" Walter yelled, and at the sight of Kermit he trilled a happy whistle. Kermit laughed, applauding; Wayne, hearing the sound, instinctively turned and bowed. Walter bowled him over running past. "Kermit! Fozzie! Chef! Dr Teeth! Wow, this is great! What amazing costumes!"

"I like yours," Kermit responded, grinning at the sleepy-looking eyes glued to the hat. "Will you be shooting yourself out of a cannon tonight?"

"Only if the real Gonzo shows me how!" Walter laughed, then looked around quickly. "Uh, where is Gonzo?"

"He couldn't make it," Emily said, reaching down to shake hands with the newest member of the troupe. "Nice to meet you, young man! Fozzie says very nice things about you."

Both the bear and the young Muppet blushed. Walter saw Dora, and immediately shook her hand as well. "Thanks – hey, you must be Dora, the bear Fozzie always had a crush on as a kid, only he couldn't tell you because he was too embearassed, get it? Ha ha ha! Wow! Hi everyone!"

"He's cute," Gina observed, as Fozzie suddenly remembered a chore left undone in the corn maze and scurried off to do it.

"He'll learn," Rhonda said, and wandered over to the cider cauldron where another rat had leaned in too far and was now swimming and shouting for help. "Gawd, Ricky, didja at least shower today?"

Walter stopped his excited dashing in front of Newsie and Gina a moment. "Hi! Wait, wait, lemme guess…you're…Sam?"

"Nevermore!" Newsie protested, and Gina giggled.

"Close. The eagle is taller," she hinted.

"Hey!" Newsie turned on her, and Walter chuckled.

"Oho! I recognize you now! Newsman, right?" When Newsie nodded, Walter smiled up at Gina. "That's a really pretty dress! Are you a ghost?"

"Thank you. Well, sort of. I'm lost." She clasped lace-draped hands together. "Ripped from my love before my time, as he mourns in the bleak December, in his violet study with the lamp-light gloating o'er…"

"'But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, she shall press, ah, nevermore!'" Walter recited, and at Gina's surprised expression, he confessed bashfully, "I had to memorize the whole thing in sixth grade. Oh! Oh! There's Rizzo! 'Scuse me!" He raced off again, the fake Gonzo-nose bouncing atop his head.

Gina shook her head. "He is cute."

Newsie cleared his throat unhappily, and suddenly found himself caught up in a strong hug from his beloved. "No, not as cute as you, my adorably pointy-nosed journalist! Stop fussing!"

"Ahem," he mumbled, blushing under the mask. Seeing a couple of black suits approaching, he whispered, "Did the rest of Bland's law firm attend too?"

Gina checked where he was looking, and laughed. "Uh…no. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

In turning to see who'd addressed them, Bunsen and Beaker bumped the edge of the apple-bobbing tub, and Honeydew teetered on the edge a full second before splashing down. As Beaker touched a concerned hand to his mouth, the other holding the tiny derby hat on his fiery hair, the scientist spluttered and tried to wring out his tie, then checked to make certain his small mustache hadn't become ungummed from his upper lip. "Pfft…well…now this is another fine mess you've gotten us into!"

"Is that Dr Honeydew?" Newsie asked. Gina gave Bunsen a hand out of the tub. "Have you had the opportunity yet to decipher that ingredient list?"

Beaker nodded, raising a finger. "Oh, yes," Bunsen said. "Most curious! Can you tell me what ailment that particular remedy was supposed to be treating? I'm wondering what studies the formula was based on, or if this is some irresponsible test of the ingredients…"

"Ailment? That was the ingredient list for a snack cake!" Newsie argued.

"Oh. Oh, dear. Well…"

"Is the formula dangerous?"

Beaker nodded worriedly. Honeydew frowned. "Well, no, not as such…but if consumed in large quantities, the active ingredients could very well have some adverse affects!"

"Such as?"

"Oh…it's hard to say…"

"Doctor, if you have any idea what that stuff will do –"

"No, I mean it's very hard to say: omniamonstruophobiitis!"

"What the heck is that?" Gina asked in chorus with her Newsman.

"Well, it's…it's similar to the symptoms you yourself suffer from, Newsman, but much more deeply ingrained: a severe monsterphobia!"

"Mee mo mobia!"

Newsie started. "The…the snack cakes could cause monsterphobia? Why on earth would they…" He frowned. "That makes no sense!"

Bunsen shook his head; Beaker shrugged. "As I said, the foodstuff would have to be ingested in vast quantities! Of course, given the high sugar content in the formula, anyone with a sweet tooth would be likely to overconsume such cakes…or anyone misled by the claim of omega-3 in it; there isn't enough fish oil per serving to equal what you'd find in one itty, bitty, fin of a teensy, weensy sardine!" Beaker nodded agreement, holding his fingertips together to show just how teensy the sardine would have to be.

Newsie looked at Gina. "Why would a monster-friendly company make cakes that cause fear of monsters?"

"Well, there you have it!" Bunsen chirped. "Oh, there's the band! Come on, Beakie, ready to do that number we rehearsed?"

"Meep!"

"Those two are singing with the band?" Gina wondered.

"It doesn't make sense," Newsie growled, still musing over the snack cake issue.

"Since when does anything they do make sense?" Gina sighed. She stroked the feathery top of his head. "Sweetie, Robin's waving at me. I think the fortunetelling table is set up. Want to sit with me, or go play a game?"

"I…I should probably go over my case some more with Blander," Newsie said, but Gina crouched to look him in the eye. Though blurry, he could tell she was frowning.

"Newsie, don't you dare. This is a party, and you are supposed to be taking the day off, remember?" She kissed the black beak covering his nose. "Why don't you try the apple bobbing? I bet you're good at that. Win some candy." Every contest had little bags of various sweets as prizes for those who succeeded at them, from the bowling to the pumpkin relay to pin-the-tail-on-the-monster. Clusters of Muppets were gathered at every station ranged around the lawn, laughing and cheering one another on. "Come on…just cut loose for a while, okay? You're welcome to sit in with me if you'd rather."

Newsie thought about it; although he was curious about the cards, sitting still right now didn't appeal to him, restless as he felt. "Uh…all right, I'll try the apple bobbing. I'll win you something," he offered, and Gina kissed him.

"That's the spirit! See that table over by the barn?" Squinting, he could just make out a blurry black blob near the big blurry red blob. "That's where I'll be until the group events later. Come find me whenever you want…" She grinned. "And I'll send someone to find you every half-hour if I don't see you!"

"Not necessary," he mumbled, embarrassed. Blurry or not, he could certainly handle himself for a while! After all, this was a quaint family farm, far from the scary tunnels of the city, and he was surrounded by friends… Sighing, he realized both she and Kermit were right. He ought to take advantage of the company and the surroundings and just try to relax. "Okay. Go do your readings. I'll see you soon."

"I love you," she murmured, kissing him once more before gliding across the lawn. Squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw determinedly, the Newsman headed for the apple tub. Five minutes later, Scooter steered him back in the right direction.

***

"All ready?" Dr Teeth asked; everyone nodded.

"Braaaaiiins?" Animal asked.

The good Doctor chuckled. "Well all riiight!" His hands swooped wildly down the keyboard, and the Mayhem kicked into a neglected New Wave classic. As Muppets continued to gather at the front of the makeshift stage (the flat bed of the haywagon), Bunsen flourished a smoking flask, standing in front of the wagon on a haybale platform.

In his reedy voice, Honeydew sang, and began to dance:  
"Doctor Heckle works late at the laboratory,  
where things are not as they seem!  
Doctor Heckle wishes nothing more desperately,  
than to fulfill all his dreams!  
Letting loose with a scream in the dead of night  
as he's breaking new ground –  
Trying his best to unlock all the secrets but  
he's not sure what he's found!  
Dr Heckle is his own little guineapig  
'cause they all think he's mad;  
sets his sights on the search of a lifetime and  
he's never never sad!"

The band joined in one line: "Oh whoaa-ohh!"

"It's off to work he goes,  
in the name of Science  
and all its wonders!" Bunsen sang, and downed the contents of the flask. A smoke bomb went off, and waving it clear, Beaker stepped out where Bunsen had just stood, resplendent in a Travolta-style disco suit.

Everyone chorused: "This is the story  
of Dr Heckle and Mr Jive!  
They are a person  
who feels good to be alive!  
This is the story  
of Dr Heckle and Mr Jive!  
Believes the underdog  
will eventually survive!"

Beaker danced maniacally, meeping along. As the music took over once more, Teeth's keyboard prominent, Beaker ducked under the wagon and Bunsen took the platform once again as Dr Heckle. People laughed, clapped, and those old enough to remember when the song was a hit sang along to parts of the second verse and the repeated chorus. Bunsen and Beaker shoved one another offstage repeatedly to hog the glory of being frontman, much to the amusement of the audience. When the band wound the tune down at last, a couple of other heckles could be heard over the applause:

"If they had to pick something from the 'eighties, why couldn't it be Thomas Dolby instead?"

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Then at least we'd be too blinded by science to see any of this!"

"Oh, ho ho ho ho!"

Waldorf poked his comrade-in-costume with a straw-stuffed glove. "Come on. Let's go scare some crows."

"You might want to take off the costume then," Statler jibed. "You'll scare more of 'em that way!"

***

Gina smiled at the smug hog seated on a large pumpkin before the card table. She smoothed out the festive, sparkly black cloth and laid three cards precisely upon it. "Well…here's what I see," she offered, looking over the reversed Knight of Bats, the Seven of Ghosts, and another reverse for the Three of Pumpkins. "This says a lot about your approach to life…I see a lot of daydreaming, a lot of artistic laziness, and a lot of self-love. You could be doing creative work, but your own brashness in forging after silly, self-involved goals is preventing you from reaching anything deeper in life."

"Boy," Link said, nodding at Clifford. "She's really good at this!"

The purple Muppet shook his head as the satisfied hog sauntered off. "You always get that positive a reaction from complete foamheads?" Clifford asked.

"Ask me again after I do yours," Gina quipped, grinning, and Cliff chuckled.

"Now, baby, don't do me like that! Come on. Ask your pretty cards if there's a lady somewhere just waiting for me to sweep her off her feet!"

"Love for the soul brother," Gina mused, handing him the deck. "Let's have a look. Focus on that question, and shuffle these until you feel ready. Then we'll lay down three cards and see what fate has in store for you."

"No such thing as fate," Clifford objected, but did as he was instructed, and watched intently as Gina turned over the top three and studied them. "I see some happy-lookin' spooks there…but what is that vampire all about? Uh, I'm not into that whole duskfall thing or whatever it is…"

Gina giggled. "No…this is very good." She indicated the first card, the Lovers, in this deck depicted by a young woman reading a staid love letter in bed surprised by a vampire as dapper as the Count leaping through her open window; symbols of temptation swirled in the background. "You need to decide whether you're looking for something fast and exciting, or something that might last longer than a fling. You're being pulled in two different directions, trying to balance loneliness with a hunger for something truly fulfilling." Next she tapped the Strength card, with a gentle lion-tamer comforting an uneasy big cat. "This card is all about inner strengths; about having courage enough in yourself to overcome your fears. You need to give yourself more credit as a desirable guy, Clifford, and get past your doubts." Last were the spooks Cliff had noted, the Two of Ghosts, a happy couple holding hands. "If you can get past the thoughts of Miss Right-Now, and just be comfortable being you, you'll find the real Miss Right…and she'll feel the same for you."

"For real? Those really say that?" When Gina nodded, smiling, Clifford chuckled uncertainly. "Don't tell me you stacked the deck."

"The deck says what the deck says," Gina argued, still smiling. "It's only bringing out what you yourself put into it. You know what you need to do, deep down. This is only a reflection of that knowledge."

"Thanks…" Clifford said. He sat there a moment longer, staring at the cards, then thanked her again and walked off, lost in thought until Rowlf hailed him and steered him toward the cider cauldron. Gina swept the cards into the deck once more, pleased. The prohibitive necklace she always wore, which regrettably prevented her from any foreknowledge about her Newsie's mishaps, at least didn't interfere with other people handling the cards, and she'd been a reader for so long that interpreting for others was easy. She held her blowing veil away from her eyes, looking around for her Muppet.

Aha. Oh, for crying out… With a sigh, she gathered up her cards into their pouch, tying it to her dress sash before breaking up the lecture that boring lawyer was giving the Newsman, having cornered him next to the almost-empty food table. With the day's light beginning to fade, the jack-o'lanterns in every window and on every table had been lit, and twinkling orange lights switched on in cheerful swags between the trees and along the porch eaves. Gina interrupted Bland as the bluebird of boringness droned on: "Never been to many parties, naturally; too much work to do! Now, if you'd like, may I return the favor of this invitation by asking you and your lady-friend to our little shindig next weekend…there'll be a chicken cordon bleu, of course, and an awards ceremony…"

"Sounds nice, but I think we have plans," Gina said, and Newsie shot her a grateful look. "Hey, I think they're about to start the gory story! Come on, let's go grab a seat." Taking Newsie by the hand, she tugged him inside to the living room, where chairs, sofas, and pillows on the floor were rapidly being covered with Muppets, everyone chattering and feeling the excitement that sundown near Halloween is wont to bring. Pumpkin-spice scented candles flickered around the interior, filling the room strongly with their joyful odor.

"Everyone settled?" Emily Bear asked, beaming at the crowd all squeezed into the large but still overstuffed room. "Well then! Time for some spooky fun! Son, get the lights; Mr Deadly, would you begin handing the bowls around?" Fozzie dimmed the lamps, so that only dark shapes which giggled and whispered and nudged one another could be seen by anyone else.

"For tonight, madam, it is not Deadly, but He Who Must Not Be Blamed," the spectral dragon intoned, settling his black cloak and taking his place next to a mysterious tray full of covered bowls. "Quiet, all of you, for I have a tale most horrible…"

"I thought the head was worse than the tail," Waldorf muttered loudly, but others shushed him.

"Silence!" Deadly boomed, and everyone stilled. Satisfied, with a gleaming eye, the dragon handed the first bowl to Kermit. "Earlier this evening, a body was found buried beneath the root cellar! No one knows how it came to be there, but its condition was most terrible…the poor dead Muppet had been stabbed, strangled, and then…completely ripped to pieces!" With a gloating laugh, Deadly peered around the circle of nervous Muppets. "John Whatnot is dead, and this is his hair…"

"It's not real, right, Uncle Kermit?" Robin whispered. His uncle shook his head, patting the little frog on the shoulder, and with relief Robin accepted the first bowl from Kermit and reached a tentative flipper in to feel the furry, coarse strips. He passed it to Piggy, who merely brushed her fingers over the stuff before passing it along.

"John Whatnot was murdered, and this is his foam," Deadly said mournfully, starting the next bowl around the circle.

Newsie put his hand into the first bowl only reluctantly. Gina nudged him. "It's okay, Newsie…it's not real. This is an old party game."

He nodded, but kept glancing over at Deadly, those glowing blue eyes eerie in the dark room. He'd always felt anxious around the dragon, but tonight was even less pleased to see the spook in attendance. Trying to shake it off as the effect of the atmosphere in here, he touched the furry stuff in the bowl briefly and passed it to Gina. He jumped when she grasped his left hand, then edged closer to her on the chair they shared.

"John Whatnot was buried in the cellar, and these are his eyes, which saw the horrible Thing that killed him…the last thing, in fact, he ever viewed!" Chuckling evilly, Deadly handed a bowl with a couple of peeled grapes to Kermit, who seemed a bit discomfited. Piggy didn't bother dirtying her pristine gloves, handing it down the line.

"Icchh," Newsie muttered when the 'eyeballs' reached him. "Who thought this up?"

Gina gave his hand a squeeze. Farther along the circle, Miss Mousey squeaked in disgust at the sponge-cake serving as the deceased's 'foam'. Giggles and groans and noises of amusement or revulsion were spreading through the room regularly now. "John Whatnot was ripped limb from limb – and this is his arm!" Deadly chortled, passing a slime-coated doggie bone over to the frog. "John Whatnot was still alive when the Thing tore out his insides – and these are his intestines!" Cold, oily spaghetti followed the 'arm'.

"I don't think I like this game," Newsie whispered, quickly passing the bone to Gina when his fingers touched it.

"Newsie…it's okay, I promise." He felt her wrap an arm around his shoulders, and felt ashamed of his fear. It wasn't even as much the silly game, he realized, as it was the clear enjoyment Uncle Deadly took in repulsing the players, each reiteration of the storyline sounding more and more grotesque…and those glowing eyes… He shuddered.

"We can drop out if you want," Gina suggested, but he shook his head. It was just a foolish game, after all; no reason to be upset; no monsters here…well, though, what about Deadly? 'He Who Must Not Be Blamed,' what a ridiculous choice of character…blamed… Newsie frowned, something tugging at the back of his thoughts. Blame. But the dragon was to blame, for something, wasn't he?

He felt another squeeze of his fingers, and squeezed back, trying to think, while the deep, intimidating voice kept adding to the feeling of menace: "John Whatnot was brutally slain, and here, dear friends, here is his brain!"

"Hey," someone complained near the far edge of the circle. "I don't get it – there's nothing in this bowl?"

"Hm?" Deadly looked over, scowling. "Of course there is!"

"No, this is supposed to be his guts, and I got nothin'," the stagepig grunted, holding up an empty bowl.

"What?" Vastly annoyed, Deadly strode over to examine it…and then heard chewing, slurping sounds. "Oh, for crying out…turn on the lights!"

Everyone looked at Rizzo as the lamps brightened. He froze, then slucked the last inch of spaghetti between his lips. "What?" Seeing everyone's reactions, he glared around. "What? It's only noodles – and I was hungry!"

The game broke up in hoots and groans. Disgusted, Deadly stalked off to see if the spiders in the cellar would rather trade stories instead. Relieved to be able to see at least somewhat better in the warm lights, Newsie exchanged a kiss with a smiling Gina. "All right, why don't we have dinner, then?" Emily Bear offered, and cheers went up. "Boys, help me bring it all out!" Numerous volunteers scrambled into the kitchen, and shortly a multitude of platters and bowls and dishes of roasted ears of corn, mashed potatoes with three kinds of gravy, bowls of barley soup and pumpkin bisque and all sorts of cooked veggies covered the dining room table, and every Muppet got in line with a plate or bowl to sample the feast.

Standing with his beloved, Newsie noticed a small bowl of suspect substance among the chicken-and-pig-sensitive buffet. "Er…don't eat any of that," he warned Gina.

"Are those…"

"Maple-coated bees!" Kermit exclaimed.

"Gotcha," Gina murmured.

Newsie touched her arm gently. "Um…thanks for…holding my hand back there."

She smiled. "I won't let you get lost, sweetie. Want me to help fill your plate?"

"Thank you," he agreed, but then corrected, "Uh…I meant…during the spooky story just now."

Gina paused, then frowned lightly. "Newsie…I had my arm around you, but I wasn't holding your hand."

"What?" Startled, he looked back into the living room, but couldn't make out any details. "Then…then who…"

"It was probably Fozzie; he was sitting just below you," Gina assured him. "Don't say anything; he'd probably be mortified!"

"Oh," Newsie said, his unfocused gaze finding a brown blur among the jostling, happy crowd around the table. "No, of course." He didn't see the blue dragon anywhere, which was just as well…something unhappy kept nudging the edge of his consciousness, something he couldn't quite coalesce into a real thought. Uneasy, he stayed very close to Gina as they joined in the dinner.

The short, scrawny creature with long fangs slunk onto the porch unnoticed by the crowd and met up with its comrades, a fat hulk of a goblin and a black-furred wolf-thing. Together they peered in the windows at the oblivious people. "Everyone, eat up but don't overstuff yourselves!" Mrs Bear ordered, pointing with her spoon at the field past the barn, where small globes of light marked the entry to the corn maze. "After dinner, we'll light the bonfire, and then whoever feels brave enough to try and win the Great Pumpkin can enter…the maze!"

Camilla turned her gaze toward the enormous pile of logs Beau had assembled, wishing someone dear was here to cuddle her by the generous flames and share a cup of mulled wine. With a sigh, she pecked at her dish of barley and apple bits, checking the clock on the living room wall. It was almost time for his show. Finishing quickly, she clucked at the other chickens, who wished Gonzo luck for her, and then she headed out for the coop. Fortunately Mrs Bear's cable provider carried MMN. Camilla settled onto a shelf with fresh straw and wrapped a tiny quilt over her costume, steeling herself for whatever awfulness her absent love might attempt tonight.

The monsters on the porch conferred quietly a moment. "Remember," the scrawny one hissed, "He looks like a bird! Try to get him alone before you grab him!" The monsters hurried out to the cornfield and burrowed in among the stalks, a shadow and a rustle the only trail they left behind.

***

At Blucher Memorial, Bobo the bear snuffled and shifted around uncomfortably on his camp stool at the door to Newsie's aunt's room. He'd really wanted to go to the party, but when Sam had exhorted the pleasures of a good political rally Bobo had decided it didn't sound like the right kind of party. Sam had promised to bring him back some informative campaign literature, but Bobo didn't mind filling in tonight for free.

"Poor old girl," the bear muttered, peeking into the room a moment at the still, tiny figure in the cold-looking, white-sheeted bed. These kinds of things were so sad. Trying not to get emotionally involved, he shut the door again, sighing. "Poor Newsguy." He wasn't really sure what he was supposed to be guarding against; maybe the old lady had been a mob wife or something. "You can never really leave the Family," Bobo mused aloud, then perked. "Hey…wonder if that means Newsie's a Goodfella? Huh. I wonder if he knows anyone in the waste disposal business? I could really use a steady, nine-to-five kinda job…with bonuses, yeah, those are good…and health insurance… Does the mob have insurance? Well, I know I mean they offer it, but I don't know if it's as good as Moo Cross…"

Two tentacled, soft-bodied creatures materialized on either side of the bed. For once, they said not a word, and the only sound inside the room was the hiss and puff of the felt lung machine.

The night darkened. The monsters waited.


	27. Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. _In which Gonzo is red hot; a corn maze is more violent than expected; and a hit squad of monsters operates under cover of darkness._

Rosamond 'Rosie' McGurk, younger brother to Thatch the Horrible, restrained the urge to pace; if he moved too much he risked spilling eighteen-molar-strength hydrochloric acid all down his back. His fur already had a pale spot where he'd had to douse himself in bleach to counteract an accident during rehearsal, and his topknot was short a few feathers. Worriedly, he gulped another Scrums antacid tablet, grimacing. Though the bottle claimed it was squirrel flavor, all he could taste was chalk.

"Okay! My nostrils are completely coated with Frackeline!" Gonzo announced, joining his assistant in the holding area; although the pen was still swiftly locked behind him, this time the monsters had escorted Gonzo through the corridors to the studio with something like admiration. He took a deep sniff, gasping at the fire along his nasal passages and down into his throat. "Waaaahhh! I love the smell of petroleum products first thing in the morning!" When McGurk looked confused, Gonzo sighed. "Never mind. Ready for your shot at the big time, kid?"

"Yahh, abbabba tibba," McGurk agreed, trying to sound more positive than he felt. Well, that wasn't entirely the case: he was positive he was going to come out of this missing at least a limb. Or a head.

"Okay, just remember, don't put the barrel down, no matter what!" Gonzo cautioned. "Oh, hey, be careful with that. You could put a hole in your costume."

McGurk stifled a yelp; a stray drop of the stuff had eaten through more than the spangled purple jumpsuit he wore tonight. Gonzo touched a hand to the monster's trembling shoulder, which uncomfortably supported an old beer barrel full to brimming of the acid. "Don't spill any more! I have carefully calculated the exact amount I'll need to neutralize the red-hots! Too much or too little will send the whole thing up in flames!" At McGurk's terrified eyebulge, the daredevil chortled. "Hah hah hah! Kidding, kidding. It should only flame up where the barrel touches your fur, no big deal, relax."

"Unngaahhh," the pink monster groaned.

"Hey! Gonzaga! Your act weel be ze last tonight!" Pew yelled, whirling to point somewhere other than Gonzo, smacking a stagefrackle, who reeled and crashed into John Lamb. "Pay attention when ah am talking to you!"

"Last?" Gonzo's face fell, but then he realized the advantage. "Hey, that's great! I bet all the other guys are so intimidated they don't want to follow me!" He ribbed McGurk; the monster shuffled anxiously, somehow managing not to dribble. "Ha ha hah! The show's only starting, and already we've got our competitors on the run!"

Rosie McGurk sighed, calculating exactly how many minutes that meant he'd have to stand utterly still to avoid any more burns…

"Make sure the cameraguy doesn't zoom in so close tonight," Snookie snapped at Pew. "I can't get rid of these circles under my eyes!" Deep shadows made the host look like a raccoon with yellow felt.

"Eet es not mah fault eef you deed not get your beauty rest!" Pew growled in reply, and stomped toward one of the roof-support posts. "Makeup! Maaaakeuuup! Do somesing about ze eediot who stayed up doing ze parteh!"

"I wasn't partying!" Snookie shouted as the director narrowly missed a nose-on collision with the post, veering off at the last instant to shoulder aside a sound tech instead. "My cot tried to eat me!" Irritated, Snookie stood still as a tiny goblin stood on the shoulders of another to reach the host's face and dab some cold cream under his weary eyes. It wasn't enough that these morons were working him into the ground; now he had to fight off suddenly aggressive furniture as well…

"This'll be the night I take it all," Montrose the Mouse claimed, smugly seated atop the small monitor in the holding pen.

"I don't think so, cheese-breath," Lamb muttered, flexing his hooves.

"Quiiiiiieet! Places! Plaaaaceeees!" Pew howled, and the crew scrambled to stay out of his way as he charged through the backstage area. The musicians on the sturdy platform suddenly surged into life, thumping and pounding out the theme song on a variety of garbage cans accompanied by trumpet and oboe. "Hey, I deed not say begin! You eediots! Camera one! Camera one! Where is ze host? Go, go, go!"

The studio audience finished finding their seats, cheering and snarling, clearly excited for the night's performances. Snookie swiftly bounded onstage, grinning as his spotlight picked him out, grabbing a wireless mic from a soundfrackle as the monster scurried past. "Heeeyy! That's right guys and ghouls, it's time once again for the only show with a negative FCC rating for gratuitous body counts, it's – Break a Leg!"

As the theme ended, one of the garbage can lids raised and a dirty orange Grouch protested: "Hey, c'mon! I'm tryin' ta watch TV down here! Don't make me come out there with last week's litterbox scoopings!"

Snookie hurriedly smacked down the can lid, his smile frozen in place. "Heh heh, no comments from the peanut gallery, folks! Let's say hello to our judges!" The camera feed flipped to the judges' table as Snookie continued, "The only guy in a worse mood than that Grouch, Beautiful Day! …The world's worst cheerleader, Behemoth!" Snookie consulted a cue card quickly. "Ah…and sitting in tonight, the world's greatest glutton, Gorgon Heap! Shakey Sanchez seems to have gone AWOL."

Something bumped around in the guts of both Hem and B.D., and both burped loudly, looked sheepishly at one another, then burst into chuckles. Snookie shuddered, then presented his game face to the camera once more. "Without further cries for help, let's get right into the action! And action it is: up first, that master of maiming, John Lamb!" Lamb stepped into a pool of harsh downlight center stage, nodding grimly at the cheers and boos alike, and stripped off his wool coat to show off his well-muscled physique. "As you'll recall if you haven't completely destroyed your brain cells with overconsumption of Fwinkies, last time the judges imposed a requirement on all the performers that their acts tonight must include and involve hydrochloric acid and red-hot candies! How they use those elements is up to the individual contestants, but the more dangerous, the higher score they're likely to receive from our judges! Remember, those of you with phones smarter than you are, vote for your favorite daredevil after their act! Limit of five votes or five hundred dollars per voter, whichever is greater. So! Let's dive in and see what exactly gets broken! For Break a Leg, I'm Snookie Blyer, and this…is the one and only Lamb!"

"Lamb!" chorused a gaggle of Frackle groupies in the corner.

The sheepfighter went into a defensive crouch as an enormous turquoise-furred Thing with a fat, powerful alligator-tail, a wide-lipped toothy mouth, and gold-lamé boxing shorts jumped into the circle. The eight-foot-tall beast roared, shaking his fists at the audience, which went even wilder; apparently the monster was a known favorite, as the chant of "Tim-my! Tim-my!" echoed through the room. Suddenly, thin jets of fluid spurted up in a ten-foot circle around the two combatants. "The legendary Acid Sumo Ring!" Snookie exclaimed. "Well! By traditional rules, folks, whomever gets pushed out of the ring first…er…loses! And with a continuous spray of acid, courtesy of the fine monsters at Three Limbs in the Fountain, they'll lose more than the match!" Cheers, catcalls, and whoops sounded from the audience as the fighters feinted at one another a couple of times, then crashed together, muscles straining, struggling to shove the other one back. The Thing's tail swished too close to the fountain jets, and he roared in pain, thrashing forward; Lamb ducked the swing, tackling the Thing's fat knees, but wasn't able to bring it down. "Looks like an even battle! But what about the red-hots?" Snookie wondered. "If Lamb doesn't figure out a way to work those into this fight, he could win it and still get a claws-down from the…oh." A hail of tiny red candies poured down on the fighters from above, bouncing everywhere, and immediately the monster skidded, the footing in the ring sweetly treacherous.

"Mine's better," Gonzo assured McGurk, the two of them watching the action on the monitor. "I mean, look at that! Do they really think the voters will be impressed with that brash display of raw muscle and stupendous strength?" He shook his head confidently; McGurk eyeballed the Whatever's scrawny, Spandex-suited frame with somewhat less certainty. "Hah! I'm twenty times as limber as that brawny brute!" Gonzo said, and proved it by windmilling both arms. "See? Flexibility! Mind over muscle! That's what'll win this, Rosie, not silly sumo moves! I am limber, I am talented, I am—" He began windmilling his legs as well to demonstrate how very talented, and promptly went down in a tangled heap. "I am…tied in a knot... Rosie! Grab something and pull!"

***

"Rules, everybody, rules!" Emily Bear called out, and the chattering, happy Muppets quieted enough to hear her. "Everybody going in gets one of these…" She held up a modified paintball rifle. "Which is loaded with five shots, so don't waste them! It's fluorescent ink, but it washes off, so don't worry too much about getting hit by your friends. We've also modified it so it won't hurt as much. Now if you get hit three times, you're out of the game and have to leave the maze! The goal, however, is not to defeat everyone else…the goal is a golden pumpkin somewhere in the maze! First person or team to find it and bring it out without getting completely creamed wins!" She held up her hands at the excited hubbub this produced. "Now, you can enter and work in teams of two…but three hits goes for the both of you in that case, not each! If you get lost and want out, just whistle and shake the corn, and we'll send the ref in to lead you out safely; but once out, you're not going back in. Okay, who wants to try?"

The bear was overwhelmed immediately by pigs, chickens, and assorted Muppets clamoring for the chance to enter. Gina tugged at Newsie's feathered sleeve. "Sounds fun! Want to try with me?"

"Er…what about the bonfire?" Newsie looked back at the pile of logs just now springing into bright and cheery life. Beau shooed everyone away from the edge of the fire, then hastily yanked off his conductor's cap and stomped on it to put out the flames.

"We can snuggle there after we win! Come on, this'll be great! Did I ever tell you I used to kick the older neighbor kids' butts at Lazer Tag?" She grinned wickedly, and the Newsman sighed.

"All right, but I can't really –"

"Great! Let's go!" She led him to the haybale-stacked entryway; beyond the solar torches and flickering jack-o'lanterns there, the corn stretched off in near-darkness, with small lights placed at intervals to keep people from wandering into the thick walls of cornstalks. Newsie held tight to Gina's hand as she accepted a paintball gun from Mrs Bear, passing another over to him.

"Uh…I've never shot anything," he whispered to her as they stood in line; Muppets were being allowed into the maze every couple of minutes. Kermit and Robin stood just ahead of them, Robin without a rifle but with a tiny pad and pencil to track the maze as they went. Newsie thought that an excellent idea, and wished he had his reporter's notepad.

"You navigate," Gina whispered back. "Make a little mark at each turn, so we know which routes we've already tried. You let me worry about the other guys."

The frogs bounded off around the first turn, quickly lost from sight and hearing among the softly rustling corn. Newsie stepped forward, wrapped in thought, and jerked back when an enormous hand barred his way. "Ack!" Looking up, he was further startled by the vast, shaggy head suddenly a few inches from his own. "Aaagh!"

"Um…cute costume, Sweetums," Gina said, trying to figure out what the green pointy ears and green rubber nose were supposed to signify.

"Haw haw haw! Thanks! Uh, it's okay, Newsman; it's just me," the troll said, lifting the rubber nose to show his own enormous pink one. "I thought a goblin would be a good Halloween costume, but I guess it's a little too scary! Sorry I made ya jump!"

Newsie nodded, self-consciously loosening his hold on Gina's waist. "Er…uh…you're guarding the exit?"

"I'm the ref!" Sweetums said proudly, standing tall. "You get lost, you just shake those corns, and I'll come find ya, haw haw haw!"

"Won't be necessary, but thanks," Gina said, smiling. "Ready, cutie?"

Newsie swallowed hard, but nodded, and the troll stepped aside, gesturing at them to enter the maze. Right behind them, Rizzo and Pepe jostled one another for next-in-line status. "Jou couldn't hit the barn side of a broad already! Jou should go sit on the logs and warm up jour cold feets okay!"

"Cold feet? Who's got cold feet? At least I can regulate my own body temperature, fishbrain!"

Gina leaned over to murmur to her nervous Muppet, "Stick close, and tell me if you smell anybody." Together they hurried into the maze, taking the first left turn, then the next right, then the second left. The rows closed in around them, dry leaves whispering in the slight wind, darkness swooping down as they padded cautiously toward the small globe of light up ahead.

***

Snookie gulped a glass of tepid water before the show returned from commercial break; he ignored everyone scurrying around him, though he kept an ear cocked for any sound of the crazy director careening too close. Frog, that tastes more horrible than usual. I hope they're not tapping into the graywater lines now, he thought, doing his best to swallow it anyway. He could tell he was dehydrated: he was almost painfully thirsty, and his felt was dry and scratchy. No sleep, bland food, and now a lack of water…he could tell he was running on pure adrenaline. The surging crowd of slavering monsters just past the stage platform helped keep him alert, but he didn't know how long he could maintain this pace before collapsing…and of all the places a Muppet did not want to show weakness, this would have to be the worst. He took his mic back as the musicians wound down their fanfare, and steeled himself to face the audience once more.

"And we're back! Well, for you channel-surfers just joining us, veteran brawler John Lamb may have bitten off more than he could regurgitate as cud when he attempted the acid-fountain sumo match just before the break! Lamb won the fight but earned one claws-down from B.D. for twisting his ankle in the ring!" The cameras cut for an instant to the scowling ram backstage, standing proudly though his hoof must've been aching. All the monsters in the studio cheered; Snookie suspected some of them were just happy to see an injury. "Next up: the mold of gold, the fearless fungus, Mungus Mumfrey!" Snookie stayed well back from the feisty fungus as it lolloped onto the platform. "Mungus will attempt to catch every red-hot thrown at him by our expert candy-tossers, while balancing over this two-hundred-gallon tank of acid!" Two lumbering yellow-furred monsters wheeled out a giant fishtank. A few skeletons with fins were rapidly disintegrating. "Uh, guys…you were supposed to empty out the fish first!" Snookie winced as the audience roared its approval. A half-dozen Frackles of all sizes and amounts of teeth lined up facing the tank, and the camerafrackle moved in for a closeup of the fungus as it slithered up the tank and spread itself thin over the open top. The band broke into a low rattling drumroll, and Snookie retreated to the relative safety of the judges' table.

"Say…is that Gray Poupon you're wearing?" Gorgon Heap asked the host. Snookie yanked his coatsleeve out of reach, dividing his anxious attention between the judges and the bizarre stunt in the spotlight. He wanted to be far enough away that when the fungus collapsed into the tank, the splash wouldn't hit him.

The fungus had other plans. It twisted and writhed, contorting itself to catch the candies which the throwers pelted at it; after a few rounds, the Frackles tried throwing far above or out to the side of the tank, forcing the fungus to strain itself to catch each one. When an entire bag of candy had been hurled, Snookie signaled the band, who played a gloriously disharmonious chord. "Amazing! But Mungus, how're you going to get down from the tank?" The tank, in fact, quivered on the verge of collapse as the acid ate through the sealant holding the glass walls together. In reply, the stretched-thin organism shifted and globbed and incorporated all the candies it had caught into its amorphous body. "Uh, Mungus, buddy, you might not want to eat them all…" Hooting a sound akin to a workday lunch-whistle, the fungus turned bright red, glopped into a ball and shot straight up. Snookie jumped aside as the fishtank collapsed, acid gushing over the stage floor.

"Drainage!" Pew yelled, shoving a long-nosed blue monster toward the mess. Off-balance, the creature went down facefirst into the puddle; with a snorking gulp, he sucked all the acid into his snout. "Next act! Ze rodent es up next! Clear ze stage!"

Snookie shook his head as the sloshing monster was ushered quickly off the platform, his nose unraveling as he tried to hold it all in. "Heh heh, that was Droop, with a reminder from our sponsor, Scrums Antacids! When you need to neutralize your dinner fast, use Scrums! Now available in Juicy Compost flavor." He looked at the judges while the tiny mouse was released from the holding pen. "How did that act sit with your stomachs, guys?"

"Stomach?" Gorgon muttered, and gave Hem a speculative look.

The large brown monster backhanded the purple-furred one from his chair. "Back off, bignose! -Well, Snookie, I thought it was creative, and even though I was really disappointed that the mold didn't fall into the soup, I'll give him a claws-up. He really stretched himself for that act!"

"He missed a couple of red-hots," B.D. pointed out, grabbing one of the throwers by the arm and yanking her into the air to show off the two candies retrieved from the stage floor. "I say claws-down!"

"Have to agree with Day-O here," Heap said in a gravelly voice. "I liked the idea of the act, but grubble argha brakka…"

"Can you not eat and talk at the same time?" B.D. demanded. "Savage!"

"Sorry," Heap muttered, spat out the gravel, and finished: "I'm not happy the fungus wasted two perfectly good candies! Claws down!" He snatched the dangling Frackle from B.D., swallowing the missing candies and the terrified stagehand whole.

"Well, Montrose! We've seen two acts so far with technical difficulties shaving points off their scores! Think you can break the streak?" Snookie asked the mouse. Montrose sniffed disgustedly.

"In my sleep! Or rather, in their sleep! Beasties and jugularmen, I give you…the Mouse's Meanderings of Mumbleosity!" Snookie stared, astonished, as the mouse pulled out a pocketwatch and began swinging it gently at the judges, the audience, and the camera which edged in for a close-up.

"Do you really think anyone is going to fall for that again?" he asked the rodent, who ignored him.

"Wow…that's…marvelous…" Hem mumbled, eyes whirling.

"I give…the mouse…four claws up…" B.D. mumbled, swaying in his seat.

"Mouse…tasty…" Heap mumbled, drooling all over himself.

In the holding pen, John Lamb smacked the monitor, nearly knocking it off its stand. "Man, that's cheating! If I was up there right now I'd be makin' some mousetail stew!"

"Cheeeeateeers…neeevvverrr…wiiinnn," Wyatt Slurp said, poking one eyeball over the top edge of the stage. His psuedopod maneuvered a pistol onto the platform, and Gonzo saw the snail's eye narrow as he took aim. BANGTHOCK!

"You didn't shoot him?!" Gonzo exclaimed, but Lamb laughed.

"Nice shot, little hardshell," the ram growled, then stalked over to the water cooler to frighten it into purifying the next cupful for him, using a glare he'd taught Chuck Norris. Gonzo rushed to the monitor, relieved to see the mouse still standing…although his watch no longer swung at the end of the gold chain in his paw.

The audience murmured, waking up. B.D. grunted, "What the—hey! You're not using acid!"

"Or red-hots!" Hem growled.

"Waiter!" Heap called.

A skinny, furry blue creature with a towel draped over one forearm rushed over. "Yes sir! Yes sir! Have you made a selection? The soup is very tasty today!"

"I'll have the mouse soufflé," Heap rumbled.

"Very good sir." The blue monster tucked the menu under one arm, but before he could run off, Heap gestured at the quivering Montrose.

"You can skip the soufflé part. I'm in a hurry; this is a working lunch."

"Uh, of course, sir." The monster grabbed Montrose by the tail, running offstage through a swinging door. "Hey Harry! One rodent to go – stack it and rack it!"

"I didn't know we had a café," Gonzo mused. "Do you think I could get a walnut-pastrami on a pita with fried avocado?"

"Ubba nah ahdidda," McGurk shrugged.

"The trick-shooting of the world's fastest snail, Wyatt Slurp, coming up after the break! But first, a special performance by Gree-Lo Orange! Stay with us!" Snookie said, grinning until the feed cut, and then slumping into a chair stage left, clear of the performance area, while the techs hurriedly set up the audio equipment for the star monster pop singer. He gulped more cloudy water, borrowed a smear of lip balm from the makeup goblin, and glared at the waiter delivering a covered platter which shook and banged to the big purple guy at the judges' table. "Nice. He gets a catered lunch. What do I get? A dry mouth and a foamache!" Irritated, he looked at his watch, counting down the minutes until this debacle went off the air once more and he could possibly get a few hours of sleep…assuming his cot had been let out to roam free and the floor of his cell didn't animate next.

***

The Newsman crouched at a corner of the narrow pathway, the tip of his nose poking around it. He took a deep whiff. "High or low?" Gina whispered, huddled just behind him with her rifle on his shoulder.

"Low," Newsie muttered back. "Feathers."

"Excellent. Stay still." Gina leaned around the corner formed by the sharp intersection of thick rows of dry stalks, aimed the way her Muppet's nose pointed, and squeezed the trigger. The thoop of the shot was followed hard by a startled squawk, and then a flurry of protests from a chicken. Gina pulled Newsie back into the corridor of corn, and they hustled away before a return attack could arrive. "You are good at this," she told him, stopping around the next turn for a breathless kiss.

"We don't seem to be any nearer the pumpkin," he objected, though he enjoyed the kiss as well as the praise. Twenty-odd minutes from their entrance into the maze, Newsie had pinpointed four competitors…five now, counting whichever chicken had just been splattered with dye. However, he'd lost track of the turns with all the backtracking and sudden changes in direction that Gina took to keep them away from anyone else armed with a paintgun.

"Trade me?" Gina asked, offering him her now-empty rifle. He was certainly agreeable; he couldn't bring himself to shoot anything. Of course, it wasn't as though he could see anything well enough to try…plus, he had the strong suspicion that if he attempted it, gallons of paint would pour out of thin air over him. Gina loaded a paintball into the chamber and grinned at Newsie. "Okay…I estimate we've covered about eighty percent of this place. Which means either we're very close, or someone else beat us to it and is trying to sneak out right now. In which case…" She thumped the side of the gun.

"How can you tell we've been through that many rows?" Newsie peered around at the endless, softly shifting stalks; each corridor was little more than a walking path, and taller even than Gina. He was glad he wasn't alone out here; except for the solar globes illuminating the paths every ten feet, the night above and around them seemed black and ominous.

"Bonfire's that way, and we keep moving away from it no matter how many turns we take," Gina pointed out; she could see the glow of the fire just above the tops of the tall stalks. Newsie shook his head.

"Then I guess we keep going." He sniffed. "I don't smell any pumpkins, though."

"Well, Mrs Bear didn't say it was a real pumpkin. Golden…could be foil-wrapped chocolate? Or painted plastic? Or real gold!"

"I hope not," Newsie sighed. "I had a really bad day the last time I touched a bar of gold bullion." He allowed her to tug him along, trying not to let the soft rustles all around them unnerve him…it was probably just the wind…

The low-slung, toothy thing skittered through the corn, careful to stay downwind of the Muppet with the sensitive nose. Slurg had been lucky, back in the farmhouse: that candle had smelled so strongly it negated everything else, but now that the walking piranha of a monster knew the Muppet was sniffing things out, it had to be careful. If only it could figure out some way to separate the unfelted female from its quarry; she seemed too good with that gun to risk a direct assault!

A hue and cry went up a couple of rows over. "Cheating! Hey! Cheating!" The monster froze, gesturing for its fellows to fall back. Sweetums stomped down the vegetative hallway, heading for the commotion.

"Cheating? Who here would cheat?" Walter wondered aloud, lifting his safety goggles to peer around, trying to get a glimpse of the offender. He was promptly splatted for the second time; turning, he saw the Chef waving cheerily at him before vanishing around a bend. Glumly the young Muppet examined the stain on his fleece pullover, then with a chuckle he plucked a packet of candy corn he'd won earlier from a pocket and lobbed it high. Racing to the same turn in the path, he saw the Chef bent over to poke the candy scattered in his way, half-expecting it to give him some trouble. The Swede jumped at the impact of the paint glob on his rear. With a war whoop, Walter scampered away, no closer to the prize but elated at his retribution.

"No fair crawling under the corn!" Sweetums roared, hefting a rat in green overalls high and frighteningly close to his ponderous lips.

"It wasn't me!" shrieked the rat. "I swear it wasn't me! It was Rizzo!"

Sweetums, about to hurl the rat out of the maze, paused, tilting his head to squint at the tiny thing wriggling from his thumb and finger. "What? Rizzo?"

"Dat's right! Rizzo! It was Rizzo! He – he's da one dressed like dat pirate!" the rat gasped, trying to slow his frantic heart before it popped out of his mouth. "I saw 'im sneakin' troo da corn just over dere!"

"Huh!" Sweetums snorted, absently tossing the rat over his shoulder (and over twelve rows of thickly planted corn to land on a haybale at the entry, where he fainted) to go after the actual offender. Rizzo, hearing this, scrambled for dear life, trying to keep ahead of those tromping feet; Sweetums caught sight of him, and pounded an aisle of dry stalks into the ground in his haste. "C'mere, you!"

"Aaaagh mother!" Rizzo screamed, veering into the trail and zipping between Gina and Newsie. Startled, the couple let go of one another and fell to either side as the troll crashed past.

Newsie, suddenly smelling dirty wet fur, panicked. He didn't have time to consider whether Sweetums was the source; he just needed to get far away now! Gasping, he dove into the corn. Opposite, Gina staggered, tumbling into the brittle stalks; when she righted herself, she couldn't hear or see Newsie anywhere. "Newsie?" she called softly, unwilling to betray her position in case one of their competitors was near. She moved tentatively along the path, trying to see any movement in the wall of corn. "Newsie? Where are you?"

Slurg elbowed the hefty goblin, waking it from its doze. "He's alone! Now! After him!"

The monsters slithered, crawled, and lumbered into the thicket of grain the way the Muppet had run.

***

Camilla muted the commercials, gazing bleakly at the fuzzy screen while she waited through the musical number by some chunky orange monster with heavy horns and a couple of backup dancers dressed in some kind of white armor. Outside, she could hear distant singing, laughter, camaraderie. Why, oh why wasn't Gonzo here with them all? He'd have loved the bonfire…she realized she actually wished he was here to fire-walk the highest logs in the pile. Sighing, the chicken lifted the mute to watch that strange snail. There was a new judge tonight; Camilla wondered if that boded well or ill for Gonzo's status. Whichever way they voted, it still wouldn't help her honey with whatever horrible stunt he had planned. The last time Gonzo had tried playing with red-hots, he'd burned all the hair out of his nose…and his ears, and his tongue…

The sound of Sweetums roaring, and assorted screams, told her the party was in full swing. Camilla fluffed her feathers against the chilly night, plumping the blanket more over herself, and watched in staid silence while the snail perched atop a dunking platform over a tank of presumably acid, daring a bunch of scraggly-looking monsters to rush up and press the button which would send him to a fate worse than escargot. She blinked, both impressed and worried as every single monster was shot down with a blast of red-hot candies shot from a Gatling gun in the snail's foot before they could reach the tank. These performers are all good enough to beat him…so he's only going to go bigger, bolder, deadlier! She shivered, impatiently clucking as the host took the judges' reactions while the snail somehow escaped the bubbling bath, although his gun fell in and frothed horribly. Oh Gonzo, don't do this! Just come home!  
But the host introduced him, and there was nothing the chicken could do to stop it.

***

"Gimme a C, a bouncy C!" Gonzo yelled at the band. Obligingly they played something upbeat and carnival-themed. With a flourish, Gonzo threw aside his cape, revealing the special bodysuit he'd made for this act: hundreds of red-hots had been glued onto the shiny red Spandex from toe to chin. One of the judges had eaten his unicycle before rehearsal, so he'd had to scrap that part of it, but he balanced on tiptoe on a four-inch-square platform high above the stage, two spotlights centering him in their glare. "People of earth, monsters of the underworld, behold! The acid in the barrel atop the head of my colleague below is not just acid – it is eighteen-molar-strength acid, and only a coating of petroleum-fossil-bug jelly is keeping it from completely melting the barrel and my furry assistant right now!"

"Gakk!" McGurk gulped, shaking. A droplet of the acid splashed from the movement, and he winced, doing his best to stay still. His knees quivered.

"I will neutralize the acid with these red-hots! This chemical masterpiece must be exactly calculated and timed perfectly, or I will dissolve when I hit it! Observe, as I begin…the Reaction of Red-Hot Wreckage!

Back at Bear Farm, Camilla squawked and flapped wildly, zooming around the low-roofed coop, banging her head and landing ungracefully in front of the TV again. Dizzy, she bawked a soft protest, but her Whatever could not hear.

McGurk waited anxiously, trembling, watching as high above, the Great Gonzo tossed a handful of red-hots into the air. With a crazed cackle, he twisted his head almost entirely upside-down to catch each falling candy in his nostrils, then with a mighty breath sucked them all inside his nasal cavity and then repeated the trick for a second and a third time, managing to contort himself enough to catch every red-hot. McGurk fully expected to hear the crack of a broken neck, but that never happened; instead, Gonzo extended his arms like a show diver, bounced up and off the tiny platform, and hurtled toward the barrel McGurk strained to hold up for him.

"Wah-ha-haaahh!" Gonzo cried, heaved a breath, and spat out a glob of half-melted red-hots; it shot down into the barrel with a splash and a hiss. Only then, in his moment of certain triumph, two seconds before he hit the liquid, did he notice some of the candies on his bodysuit had melted under the hot spotlights. "What? Oh no, I needed those! This suit was perfectly calibrated to – whoa-ho-waaaaauuuugh!"

McGurk yelped in pain, the splashes spattering hotly over his fur when Gonzo plunged into the barrel. A thick cloud of steam whooshed up, obscuring the performers. Snookie shielded his eyes, unwilling to see the result. The judges leaned over their table, fascinated. The audience held its collective breath.

"Tah-daaaahhh! Thank you! Thank you!" Gonzo shouted, standing in the barrel; the remnants of his bodysuit fizzled as they dissolved, leaving a naked, joyous, and smoking Whatever. Then the barrel fell apart, and McGurk collapsed with a groan, and a startled Snookie fumbled for words as a stagemonster hastened to throw a blanket over the exposed daredevil.

"I…uh…well! That was positively…revealing! The Great Gonzo, folks!" Snookie stammered, and applause broke out. "That has to be the most painful advocating of nudity onstage I've ever seen…looks like his assistant is trying to get more into the act and out of his skin, as well!"

McGurk, with a gurgled shriek, leapt upright and away from the crumbling barrel. Most of his fur was gone. Embarrassed, he threw his hands over front and rear and sidestepped offstage. Gonzo, still grinning and waving at the audience, had to be forcibly dragged off by the monsters; he knew his act had topped them all, even if he'd had to unexpectedly go topless to pull it off…and bottomless as well. "Oh, don't be such prudes!" he scoffed at the Frackle trying to knot the blanket around him. "Felt is beautiful! Fur is natural!"

All three judges gave him a claws-up. Gorgon Heap even waved a mousetail like a pennant. Gonzo grabbed a shaken Rosie's shoulders. "Do you hear that? They loved us! No one can touch us! Ahhh ha ha ha ha!"

McGurk stared at the Whatever. Calming slightly, Gonzo nodded at him. "Hey, I really like the haircut, too. Keep the image fresh; good thought!" McGurk reached up a startled hand to feel the complete lack of feathers atop his head; behind him, a Frackle gasped and averted eyes, and hurriedly McGurk covered himself again. Still out of breath but in performer's nirvana, Gonzo beamed at the other daredevils giving him ugly looks; all he could hear was the crowd still going wild. "Ah, Camilla, baby, I sure hope you saw this! Dream big, dare big, win big! Woo hooo!"

***

The wolf-nosed thing was ready, and when the goblin jumped up and startled their bird-costumed prey, he stumbled backwards right into the waiting claws. "Hey!" the Muppet protested, but before he could scream, Slurg thumped his head, and the Muppet slumped unconscious.

"Hurry, hurry!" Slurg panted. The goblin and the wolf-thing grabbed limp arms and dragged the partygoer through the hole they'd cut in the corn. In seconds they were out of the maze; in under a minute they'd reached the root cellar beneath the old farmhouse. As Slurg threw open the storm door so the others could drag the heavy Muppet down inside, the wolf-thing began singing happily:

"Buggawuggaboog, tugga zergel bergel, tuggawuggaboog, tugga snergel snort—"

"Hey! Shut up!" Slurg snarled, smacking the wolf-nose. "You wanna give us away? Now move it!"

"Sorry," the monster muttered low. "I'm just happy; ain't you?"

"I'll be happy when we get this load to the boss," Slurg snapped. "Now heave!" He glanced around worriedly as they dragged the helpless Muppet into the cellar, where a recently dug tunnel provided access all the way to the Hudson, where a garbage scow waited to ferry them all home. No one seemed to have noticed the kidnappers. With a toothy grin, Slurg shut the cellar door.

The spectral dragon's eyes narrowed to pinpricks of blue light. He'd no idea what those creeps were up to, but clearly they hadn't been invited guests. "I hate party crashers," he muttered. Vowing to teach them a lesson if they stuck their noses out here again, he sauntered upstairs to chat with the resident ghost, a charming old sheep who'd died peacefully after the shearing of 'fifty-eight. She seemed a nice enough old gal, even if her mind was a trifle wooly.

***

"What are jou doing! I did nothing! Nothing!" Pepe yelled.

"I'm innocent! I been framed!" Rizzo cried, his voice cracking.

Sweetums scowled at the two tiny pirates, one clutched in each massive hand. "Well all I know is one a'yuh was cheatin'!"

Rat and shrimp immediately pointed at each other.

"Him!"

"It was him okay!"

Snorting in contempt, the troll swung them both over his head and released them; they screamed all the way down, landing near the bonfire. With a low groan, Rizzo wobbled to his feet. Seeing Pepe a foot away, he snarled, "Tanks! Tanks a bunch! I was dis close to da cheese pumpkin!"

"Jou was nowhere nears it! If jou had not messed it all up, I was about to –" Pepe stopped. "The what pumpkin?"

"Cheese! Cheese! You hoid her: a golden pumpkin! Every rat knows perfectly well what dat means! It mighta been made a' cheddar, or Gouda, or maybe Cheshire…and now I'll never know tanks to you and your cheating!" Rizzo slumped, despairing, gazing back at the wall of corn, but Sweetums tromped out, sending a very direct glare their way. Clearly, sneaking back in wasn't going to be an option.

"Hmf! Cheese, ha! Jou has no ideas what jou are talking about already. And I would have had all that gold in my hands if jou hadn't been eating jour way through the maze okay!"

"Oh, yeah, sure! Like you weren't –" Rizzo suddenly noticed splotches all over the prawn. "Hey, wait a second! You were out anyway! You got hit more dan tree times!"

"I did not!"

"You did so! Look! Dat's one, two, tree, four…"

"It does not count if the same person hit me more than once, okay!"

"It does too! A hit is a hit!" Rizzo cackled, then, curious, asked, "Who hit ya dat many times, anyway? Who we got dat's dat good a shot?"

"It was dark. I did not see them, okay?" Pepe grumped, brushing the dirt from his breeches. The pair began to trudge toward the bonfire.

"Dose look like fish imprints! Did Lew smack ya to kingdom come?" Rizzo chortled at the mental image of the fish-flinger beaning the shrimp. "What, did he coat his fish wit' da paint or somethin'?"

"I don't know who got me already! Stop laughing!" Pepe noticed several colors of paint coating the rat as they entered the brighter area around the fire. "Wait, wait, wait…jou is accusing me of cheating when jou got hit four, five times?"

"I did not!" Rizzo twitched his whiskers, seeing the prawn grinning at them. "So dey got messed up – ain'tcha ever heard of backspatter? It's from dis hit!" He indicated the splotch on his chest.

"Then why is it a different color okay?"

***

"Newsie? Newsie!"

Hearing her calls, the Newsman struggled out of the corn, grunting when several dry ears broke free of their stalks to hammer him as he worked his way free and into the path once more. "Gina?"

"Newsie!" Suddenly her arms caught him up, hugging him; relieved, he hugged back. "Oh, geez, you had me worried there!"

"Me too," Newsie gulped, simply holding her tight. "I – I smelled something, and thought –"

"A ha! Tag!"

Gina and Newsie both jerked, startled, when paint splats smacked them both dead center. They looked up to see Scooter and Sara laughing at them before the couple ran down the corn path and took a turn a few yards away. Their giggles and rustles could be heard a few seconds more; then the quiet wind returned, leaving the Newsman and his beloved presumably alone.

"Nuts," Gina sighed. "That makes three."

"It's okay," Newsie said, embracing her again. "Can we…can we just go get some cider and get warm by the fire?"

"Sounds good," Gina agreed. She helped him upright fully, and together they headed for the sounds of singing and the smell of woodsmoke. She squeezed his shoulder as they walked. "I'm sorry I let go…Sweetums kind of surprised me, tearing through like that! Are you okay?"

"F-fine." He tried to regain his composure. "I'm sorry I…I panicked." He felt awful; how could he have abandoned her like that? What if it had been a real monster! "That…that smell was there, and I…I…"

"Newsie, it's okay." Gina paused to draw him close. "I'm pretty sure that was Sweetums; I smelled it too. I guess he took a bath before the party."

"Someone should suggest soap," Newsie grumbled. He still felt like a terrible coward. He kissed her hand. "I won't run again. I put you in danger!"

She hefted the paintgun. "I have this. I'm sure even monsters don't like paint in their eyes!"

Yells and screams surprised them both; with only a glance at each other, they ran toward the sound, Gina bringing the rifle to bear as they rounded a corner and saw – a four-way battle of paint raging in a large open area. The Chef, Walter, Kermit, and Scooter dodged, rolled aside, reloaded, and shouted wildly, trying to deliver the shot which would put another Muppet out of the game; meanwhile Robin inched toward a large gold-painted pumpkin in the center of the clearing. Gina swore. "We were close!"

Newsie ducked a stray shot as the Chef missed Scooter; Sara popped out of the corn nearby and splatted the Chef, who realized he'd been tagged out. "Voon der poompiekin arn der sploot-sploot!" he shouted, aghast at having failed so close to the goal.

Laughing, Kermit nailed his second-in-command smack in the chest, and it was Scooter's turn to express his displeasure at losing: "Oh…bubblewrap!" Sara rejoined her husband, the two nearly falling to the earth, out of breath but overcome with hilarity. Kermit whirled, trying to orient on Walter, who caught the movement a second before he lunged for the pumpkin himself. Doing his best Bruce Willis grimace, Walter fired his rifle one-handed, the other outstretched to seize the pumpkin, using his last shot in hope of knocking Kermit out…and the shot instead whacked Kermit's rifle, sending it tumbling somewhere over their heads into the corn. Walter's hand and Robin's flipper touched the pumpkin at the same moment.

"Wooo! Bravo!" Gina yelled, applauding. Newsie joined in, amazed at the lengths the more athletic Muppets had gone to in trying to gain the prize. Walter looked at Robin; Robin climbed atop the large pumpkin.

"We got it first!" the little frog claimed. There wasn't a splotch on him; everyone who'd considered hitting the peeper had hesitated – and then Kermit had nailed them.

"Oh," Walter said, crestfallen, panting. "Okay. Good game, Robin."

His competitive streak giving way to a little guilt, Robin looked at Walter's fingers on the stem. "Well…maybe we both got it at once." He looked uncertainly at the others regaining their equilibrium.

The Chef pointed at Walter. "Der foon de poompy-kin furst!"

Scooter and Sara exchanged a look, then shook their heads. "From this angle, looked like Robin to me," Scooter said.

"I was too busy dodging," Kermit admitted.

They all looked at the Newsman. "I wish Kazagger was here," he sighed. "Uh, from over here, it looked like you both touched it at the same time…"

"Are either of you tagged out?" Gina asked. Kermit and Walter examined themselves; each had sustained two distinct paint hits, but only two.

"Then it's a tie!" Robin said, smiling.

"You sure? I mean, maybe you were a split second quicker…" Walter offered.

Robin shook his head. "Nah. Besides, how'm I going to carry this thing out? It's huge!" Though not the largest specimen of its species by far, the real pumpkin with a gold makeover dwarfed the tiny frog. Laughing, Walter shook hands with him, then Robin climbed onto the squash, and Walter lifted it (with a little straining and puffing). Proudly, the two of them headed out of the maze, followed by everyone else.

Their exit from the cornfield brought cheers from the rest of the party. Cider and fresh pumpkin cannolis (delivered shortly before by an ape in a bakery van) made the rounds, everyone settled down by the fire, and Mrs Bear awarded the young Muppet and frog their prize: inside, the hollowed-out pumpkin was full of chocolate leaves wrapped in autumn-colored foil. Gleefully they split the hoard, handing chocolates out to anyone who asked, and forcing one into Rizzo's paws despite his grumbling about lost cheese. When everyone had something warm in their bellies and all had snuggled into fleece blankets around the blaze, Emily stood on a large log and called for attention.

"All right, everyone, let's hear the costume contest results! Newsman, dear, where are you?"

Newsie hurriedly wiped powdered sugar from his chin and did his best to look professional, though with his mask off and a blanket draped over his raven outfit that proved a bit difficult. "Ahem…uh, first up, Scariest Costume!" The stagepigs had helped Emily compile the results of the voting boxes, although she had to scold them when they kept complaining it was too hard a task. "The winner is…Janice!"

"Oh, wow," Janice said, running over to accept an orange-and-black ribbon and a toffee apple from Emily. "Like, this is so great, everyone! Thanks bunches!"

"Hey, you can stop leaning your head sideways now," Rowlf said, "The whole zombie thing is pretty freaky, but I'm sure that must hurt!"

"Like, it rully does," the guitarist agreed. "But my yoga teacher told me to hold it this way for a week to rebalance my chi!"

"Er…" Newsie tried to return the announcements to a normal level when the groans and laughs died down. "For Cutest Costume: Robin, as Kermit!"

A chorus of "awww" met the young frog, who then tried to out-news the Newsman as he accepted his prize of pumpkin-gnat bark: "This is Kermit the frog, live on the scene, where a yellow Muppet has just spilled cider on himself!"

"What?" Newsie hurriedly checked, then blushed as he realized Robin was teasing. "Uh…no. Um. Next up…Funniest Costume! And the category goes to…Wayne and Wanda!"

"Oh thank you, thank you!" Wanda gushed, rushing past Wayne to grab and wave her ribbon. She gave Emily a kiss on the cheek as the bear handed her a small felt pumpkin full of confetti bombs and bubble-blowers. "See Wayne? I told you this was a wonderful idea!"

"I still don't see why you got to be Cher," Wayne huffed, pinning his ribbon on his open-collared shirt. "And I look terrible in this mustache! And why am I wearing a rosary?"

"Those are love beads, sweetie," Emily informed him. "Go on, Newsman!"

"Ahem…er…for Sexiest Costume…er…" He shot a wary look in the direction of Miss Piggy. "Uh…the award goes to…Rhonda Rat!"

"What?" Piggy growled.

Rhonda twirled once atop a flat log, showing off her sleek thighs under the miniskirt. "Too true, Goldie! Mwah!" She blew kisses at everyone, wrapping the ribbon around her neck as a scarf, and trotted back to her seat with a round of aged Vermont white cheddar.

Rizzo promptly rejoined his date. "Hey, ya know, I voted for ya, babe!"

"Sure ya did. Wanna tell the pig that?"

"Uh…Best Couples Costume…" Newsie announced loudly, hoping to quiet the noise among the log seats in the vicinity of an Egyptian-clothed pig, "goes to Kermit and Miss Piggy!"

"Well, I should hope so," Piggy declared. She elbowed Newsie aside to stand on his log. "Thank you all so very much! I would like to thank my costumer, and my hair stylist, and the academy for all its goodwill…"

"Piggy," Kermit murmured in her ear, "wrong awards!"

"Oh…aha, ha, ha! But vous cannot blame me for such a simple mistake!" Piggy cooed; Kermit shook his head, and tied the ribbon to Cleopigtra's royal staff; they returned to their seats bearing a basket of massage oils. Newsie wondered what would have happened if he and Gina had won…or Bunsen and Beaker…or (he shuddered) Statler and Waldorf…

The hecklers chose that moment to yell at him. "Hey, no fair! We had that locked up! Foul!" Waldorf cried.

"Bawwwk!" Camilla protested, seated near the other chickens, disgruntled at how oblivious to her daredevil's near-death experience everyone else seemed to be.

"You mean pig! The chicken didn't win!" Statler corrected loudly, and they took up the chant together: "Pig! Pig!"

Flustered, Newsie checked the name on the next slip of paper. "Uh, for Best Zombies, the Group Costume! Er…I mean…that's backwards…"

Floyd rasped his usual laugh. "Little dude don't know whether he's comin' or goin'! Hey Newsdude, put them glasses back on your beak!"

Gina smiled at Newsie, shaking her head, and he tried to shrug off the taunt. "Well, uh…I didn't realize all that shambling was part of your costume; that's how you guys usually move anyway!" he shot back, promptly dropping the remaining ballot results.

Floyd and Dr Teeth approached to collect their prize; Floyd bent over the dropped papers. "Hey, man, lemme give you a hand – whoopsie!" His fake skeleton-hand plunked to the ground atop the paper, and laughter rang through the crowd.

"Man, I love that joke!" Sweetums roared, clapping Lew roughly on the shoulder. A mackerel went sailing across the circle to slap Clifford wetly in the face.

Clifford waved his proton-stream nozzle at Lew. "Man, don't make me get all supernatural on your butt!"

When the laughter finally died enough for the Newsman to be heard over it, he continued the announcing: "Uh…Worst Costume…we have a tie! Uh…half the voters cited 'worst use of makeup' for Pepe, and the rest claimed 'worst attempt at squeezing into pirate breeches' for Rizzo!"

"What!" Pepe shouted, outraged.

"Un-freakin-believable," Rizzo groaned.

They were only somewhat mollified by the prize of a gift certificate to a prominent costume shop back in the city, and went back to their seats arguing over who should take the sixty or the forty percent of the amount. "And lastly, Best Overall Costume," Newsie said loudly. "Ahem…this category primarily addresses the qualities of the costume which seem best to suit the person wearing it, more than the value of the costume on its own," he explained after peering closely at the notes for the category. "And the winner is…er…me?"

Gina bounded up, laughing, wrapping him in her arms. Smiles and nods and happy faces surrounded him. "I…me? Why?" Newsie asked, baffled.

Emily patted his shoulder. "Well, dear, I guess everyone thought you sounded enough like the raven already. It was a close race, though: a lot of people voted for Scooter, and some for Uncle Deadly, and even some for that lawyer fella that was here earlier!"

"Er…thank you," Newsie managed, and accepted the ribbon from Gina. She pressed something else into his hand. "What's this?"

"Um…it's a sugar skull with your name on it," Gina said, and caught the treat when a startled Newsman fumbled it.

"What would I do with that?" he demanded, looking askance at the iced confection.

"You eat it, dear," Emily explained. "It's supposed to be good luck! I bought a bunch of them on my last trip to Cancun. Okay, everyone! Who'll start a ghost story? We have more cannolis from that nice Mr Fiama, and I'm bringing out a pitcher of pumpkin spice mudslides for the grown-ups!"

Camilla sighed, hunched into her blanket, then decided to go get a mudslide. Her feathers felt frayed and her nerves strung taut, and a little pumpkin-rum-and-ice-cream might be just the ticket if she wanted any actual sleep tonight.

The spooky stories went on until the logs had died to embers, and then a gaggle of sleepy, satisfied Muppets dragged their candy hauls with them to bed on sofas, chairs, tucked into curtains, sprawled in the bathtub, snuggled in the clean straw of the barn-loft, or tucked into bed. Animal snored softly from his chains on the foyer wall, and Uncle Deadly hung upside-down from the highest beam in the barn with some friendly bats he'd met, all cuddled together and dreaming of soaring flights. Newsie blushed at the snicker he heard behind him when he came to bed in his plaid flannel pajamas.

"Thhbbbttt," Gina offered her best raspberry to Floyd in response, and gratefully Newsie snuggled under the blanket next to her. He heard Janice giggling, the murmur of voices across the room as Piggy told something to Kermit which made him grumble quietly, and then at last everyone settled with their respective loves and the room fell silent. Newsie sighed, feeling the warmth seeping into his PJs beneath the heavy quilt, then started when he felt his love's arm slide over his midsection.

"Gina!" he hissed, "There…there are other Muppets present!"

"And I guarantee you they're all snuggling too. It's cold," Gina whispered, her breath warm across his ear. "Now hush, my handsome reporter, and get some sleep. I love you." She kissed his cheek, cuddling close, and gradually he relaxed.

"Love you too," he whispered back, closed his eyes, and fell asleep free of any fear of scary things under the bed. He knew Gina had brought the paintgun inside, and it stood within easy reach. Comforted by that knowledge, he drifted off despite the growing moan of the wind outside.

***

Along the muddy Hudson, a low barge crept downriver. The monsters huddled in a semicircle, picking through a trash bag for rotted scraps of food, but looked up when the canvas sack off to one side began stirring, and a feathery hat poked out. "Whuh…what's going on? Why am I in a bag? Hey! Let me out! I'll sue you for unlawful disposal of live Muppets! Hey!"

The goblin unconcernedly whacked the top of the bag, and its occupant slumped unconscious again. The wolf-thing looked worried. "Uh…can he really do that? Sue us?"

"You idiot, this dork's gonna be in Heap's lower intestine by the time the courthouse opens in the city! Fuhgeddaboudit!" Slurg chortled, and the other two joined in, relieved.

"So, uh…can we sing now?"

Slurg shrugged. "If it makes ya happy."

The lupine-nosed creature began crooning, and within a few words, the other two alumni of Scare U. raised their scratchy voices as well for the old school fight song: "Buggawuggaboog, tugga zergel bergel, tuggawuggaboog, tugga snergel snort! Buggawuggaboog, tugga booga bugga, boogawoogawug, tugga boo!"

A disturbingly cheerful garbage load wound its way toward a sleeping Manhattan.


	28. Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. _In which there are monsters at the end of the tunnel._

"Go away," Snookie groaned.

The guard shook his shoulder again; Snookie felt stiff from spending the night on the floor of his cell. "Gotta gets up. Showtime," the monster rumbled at him. Snookie angrily wrenched his arm free, curling up tighter, wrapping the blanket around him and wishing he could shut out the world.

"Forget it, you ugly overbite! I'm exhausted! Go away!"

The guard conferred with another; Snookie realized the next step would be his forcible dragging to the showers, if he was lucky. One time they'd had a far-too-pleased Carl drop by to give him a tongue-bath instead. He wasn't expecting the next voice he heard, however: "Oh, goodness! Are you giving these good monsters a hard time, sleepyhead? Well not to worry! I have just the thing!" Van Neuter bobbled into the cell, gaily producing a large syringe. "This monsteriffic vitamin shot should perk you right up!"

"I'm up," Snookie yelped, shooting to his feet, then hopping in place to get the cramps out. "I'm up!"

"Well, let me just give it to you anyway. You'll feel so much slimier afterward!"

"I'm fine, thanks, gottarun," Snookie gulped, hastily putting as much distance between himself and the vet as his painfully-tingling legs would allow. "Guard! I need a shower! Guard!"

"Oh, well," Van Neuter sighed, then perked as he caught sight of Thatch McGurk curiously peering into the cell. "You! You were very sluggish yesterday – why not let me make you even sluggier? Hey, come back here! It only stings for a minute, you big sissy!"

Cleaned up and dressed, Snookie tromped into the studio in a foul mood. He slammed the door open, not noticing the tiny monster he crushed behind it against the wall. "You people have to let me out for some air! I'm suffocating down here in this stench!" Snookie yelled. The Frackles merely glanced at him before turning back to their jobs. "Well?" Snookie demanded, glaring at the Yeti who directed this show. The hulking, white-furred ape shrugged, pointed to a wall clock, pointed to a schedule clipboard. "And what if I refuse to perform until I get a breath of fresh air?"

The Yeti shrugged again, then gestured to a stagefrackle. The sharp-faced creature trotted over, yanked up a startled Snookie's large nose, and sprayed a dash of Mountain Aire FeSqueeze into the Muppet's open mouth. Snookie gagged and Yeti growled and pointed at the stage-floor area of the small studio.

"So…much…better…cough, cough…thanks," Snookie hacked, stealing a water bottle from the Yeti to try and regain some moisture in his throat. He drank continuously while the soundfrackle wired his lapel mic and checked it, handing back an empty bottle to the disgruntled director. Doing his best to compose himself, he stood in the center of the stage area and waited for the director to count down, the lights and theme music to go up, and the camera to begin filming. His smile wasn't as wide as usual; he didn't care. "Welcome, all you baconhounds and porkstuffers! Once again, it's time to play the Hammily Feud!"

Canned applause rose and faded. Snookie turned to his right to greet the new batch of porkers destined for the stewpot. "Aaaaand today we have two new families to snout off against each other for the prize of living another day! As if anybody here thinks that's really going to happen… Here we have with us the Carne Asadas from Albuquerque! You guys really should've taken that left turn, heh heh. So, Papa Carne, are you all excited to be here?"

A large hog with whittled-down tusks grunted, nodding. "Oh boy! Oh boy! They told us there'd be cake! With spinach!"

"And you believed them?" Snookie asked; the monster crew played a burst of canned laughter. "Well, who's this amazingly rotund lady?"

"Snookie, this is my wife Prudy; my son Guapo; and my youngest son Mucho," Papa Carne introduced them all proudly. Prudy sniffed haughtily. Guapo looked less than thrilled, and a very round little Mucho bounced up and down so hard he quivered all over with excitement. "We just can't wait to get to the barbeque!"

"Neither can the director! All right, and in this corner, we have the Utherwhite-Miit family from Rural Corner, Pennsylvania! Welcome in, fresh Miits!"

The group of smaller pigs oinked happily…all except one. Snookie paused, frowning at the pink splotches over blue felt. "Uh…what's your deal, little girl?"

"Oh, dat's our newest family member," the mother of the clan explained in a thick Penn Dutch accent. "Ve adopted her choost dis morning! Isn't she pretty…for an Englisher?"

Snookie couldn't resist touching the plastic-looking snout. It was plastic! Startled, he lifted the fake snout off the nose of a Whatnot girl with a gag in her mouth. "Hey, you're not a pig at all! What the heck is this!"

"Ve luff her like our own!" Vater Utherwhite-Miit assured Snookie. He added in a lower voice, "It vas de only vay dey vould let us compete! Ve needed anutter child!"

"What's going on?" Snookie demanded of the director, striding off-set; the camerafrackle hurriedly cut. The Yeti grumbled, gesturing fluidly. Snookie couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You ran out of pigs? Seriously? So you just threw in a…a girl and thought nobody could tell the difference? She isn't that piggish!"

"Mnnn mnnnnnn mrrrr!" the girl protested. Disgusted, Snookie went back to her and pulled the gag loose. "—and your mother too!" the girl finished.

"Hey, sweetheart, I don't make the rules," Snookie told her. "Did you agree to be in this farce?"

"I'm not a pig, I'm not a pig!" the girl yelled.

"Now Sigride…" Mutter Utherwhite-Miit gently protested, but the girl shook off the comforting, hard-nailed hand.

"They dressed me up!" the girl added, nodding angrily at the Frackles offset all trying to look somewhere else.

"Is this true?" Snookie demanded.

A chorus of "No! No, no, no!" sounded.

A pink Frackle shuffled his feet nervously. "Well…we did do the nose…"

"And the hat," another admitted.

"But she's still an entrée! Play the game!" a scaly green thing yelled from the sound booth.

"Yeah! Play the game! Play it!" the crew chimed in.

Snookie sighed. The girl stopped him from replacing the gag, asking, "Wait, aren't you a Muppet? This is discrimination! These monsters are blatantly disrespecting our inalienable Muppetness!"

Snookie shook his head. "Look, kid, what are you, some kind of rabble-rouser? I can warn you right now, that's not going to play well to this crowd."

"I'm not a kid! My name's Stinkbomb," the girl pouted. "I saw how they disregarded your demand for better treatment! Stand up to them! Be proud of your Muppetness! Felt is beautiful! We will not rest until no Muppet is ever discriminated against—"

"Sweetie, if people looking at you funny is the worst thing you've ever been through, you have a lot to learn," Snookie sighed, shoved the gag back in the complaining girl's mouth, and set the fake snout over her nose again before the Yeti could decide they should all have an early and unpleasant lunch break. "Fine, let's get to it," he said, walking back center stage and putting on a smile for the camera. "So, our contestants are ready and eager to get going! It's time to play the Hammily Feud! The topic chosen today by our carefully selected panel of losers found loitering around the train tracks is…" A clanging bell signaled the start of the round, as from the top of the large board behind the stage, Carl the Big Hungry Helper let drop a scribbled sign. "Things you'd take to a cookout!"

The Whatnot girl fussed and strained against her bonds most of the show, while contestant after contestant was sent to the grill. Snookie pitied her: if amateur activism was the most strenuous thing she'd ever been involved in, she really wasn't going to enjoy being basted over a spit…but there was nothing he could do for her. Carl and several other large monsters lurked close by, occasionally chewing on the unlucky goblins holding up drool buckets for them, waiting for the barbeque to impart smoky-sweet tenderness to every ham, whether real or not. Only his current contract kept them from adding him to the low, slow-cooking fire as well. They're lucky, Snookie told himself uneasily, hurrying away from the sounds of screams and teeth gnashing at the end of the show filming: their awful day is over. I still have four more tapings to go through…and there's nothing I can do.

This thought, despite its truth, brought him no comfort.

***

"This is fun! What color are we painting the lobby?" Beauregard wanted to know as they jostled along in the cab of the rusted pickup.

"Beau, we're not. This is our cover," Rhonda tried to explain again.

Beau frowned. "Should I have brought extra tarps?"

"You guys set up da paints," Rocco Rodent directed. "I'll get youse in, den I'll…uh…I'll keep a nose out for anyone inneruptin' us!"

"Rob the place blind, you mean," Rhonda growled. "This is risky enough already, kid! Am I paying you for this job or what? Stick to the plan!"

The Newsman shot a worried look at his producer. Bad enough they'd unwittingly involved the placid janitor; just by asking to borrow some coveralls, somehow the message of a painting job had wormed its way into Beau's thick skull instead, and he'd cheerfully insisted on driving them and bringing the painting supplies. Rhonda had pointed out this would be perfect cover: if they actually allowed him to paint the lobby (and set tarps over the security cameras), who would question the weekend work order? However, Newsie was less then sanguine about Rhonda's smug nephew wanting to tag along. Picking the office's lock was one thing; trying to steal half the Nofrisko building was another.

The camerasloth riding in the back of the truck with the paint buckets added another dimension of potential trouble. Newsie was pleased that Tony was coming along to capture visible proof of monsters, but worried that his presence might somehow backfire on their legal action against KRAK. He muttered at Rhonda, "It's really nice of Tony to help us out, but does he know this could cost him his job too?"

"His name's Tommy, how many times do I hafta tell ya that? And it's got nothing to do with nice! He owes me a favor from a station poker game a month ago."

"A month a—then why did I have to pay him for our last venture?" Newsie fumed.

Rhonda shrugged. "'Cause last time, I thought you were foam-damaged." She looked up at Newsie somewhat abashedly. "I, uh. I'm sorry, okay?"

He sighed gruffly. "Okay. At least maybe now we'll finally get proof!"

"Just think: we might be able to bring down a freaky food factory and show up Blanke all at once!" Rhonda squeaked. She tried to fluff her hair under the painter's cap. "Do I look cute enough for prime-time in this, ya think?"

"Aunty Rhonda, yer always a doll," her nephew assured her with a smirk. He let out a shrill yelp when Rhonda thwacked the top of his head. "What was dat for?"

"That was for being the most insincere rat on the planet," she snapped. "Buttering me up will not make me look the other way while you try to make off with their whole IT section!"

"Fine, see if I trow a compliment your way evah," Rocco muttered. "So, uh, why is youse breakin' inta dis place anyways?"

"We're not breaking in, we're journalists investigating a serious story about monsters," Newsie said stiffly.

Rocco stared at him a second, then turned to Rhonda. "Where'd ya say ya dug up dis mook?"

"We're coworkers, kid. Shut it." Rhonda winced as Beau narrowly missed a corner mailbox. "Beau! Stick to the street!"

"I thought you wanted me to drive on it," Beau said, puzzled. "I might have some supra-glue in my toolbox, though!"

"Just drive," Rhonda groaned. She returned her attention to her sulking nephew. "They have security cameras. Make sure you keep your face hidden. Last thing I need is your father angry with me for you being thrown in jail, ironic though that would be…"

"Is you implyin' somethin'?" Rocco growled. "Dad 'n my brothers 'n me is all legitimate businessrats!" He told Newsie proudly, "We're tops in the waste-reclamation industry in Joisey."

"Uh…fascinating," Newsie replied. "Rhonda, about that: they know me! Will the coveralls be enough of a disguise?"

"I'm so glad you asked." From a large paper bag, the rat produced a Yankees ballcap. "An explosion has just taken place at the hat factory!" She plunked the several-sizes-too-large cap onto his head; he fumbled with the brim.

"It's covering my glasses! How'm I supposed to see like this?"

"Just keep your eyes on me, sunshine. You only need it 'til we get past the cameras. I'm guessing they don't film in this alleged secret room."

"Who knows what's down there?" Newsie grumbled, but adjusted the hat to peer from underneath it. "That's the building, Beau! Park here!"

Newsie hoped no parking cops would be patrolling today and give them a ticket for the skid marks on the sidewalk in front of the Nofrisko office. He helped the others unload cans of paint, rollers, and tarps from the back of the truck. Rocco paused at the front door only a few seconds before opening it and strolling in, paintbrush in hand. Rhonda and the sloth followed, setting up dropcloths and spreading plastic tarps over everything in the lobby; Newsie hung back, hoping no one was around who might recognize him, until Rhonda came and murmured to him that the lobby camera had been found and covered. Taking a deep breath of relatively fresh air, Newsie ventured once more into the minimal lobby of the snack cake company.

"Rocco!" Rhonda hissed; the younger rat glanced up from munching a Fwinkie out of the welcome basket on the reception desk.

"What?" Rocco asked, wiping strawberry crème off his whiskers. When his aunt only shook her head, he threw his arms out angrily. "What?"

"That door, over there," Newsie muttered low, just in case any sound surveillance was recording. While Beau cheerfully began priming the wall behind the front desk, Rhonda joined Newsie in front of the coat closet. Steeling his foam, the Newsman grabbed the doorknob and turned.

It opened easily. Rhonda took a tiny flashlight from a pocket of her cargo pants and shone it in…and down. Stairs immediately led from the door into darkness. "Okay, score one for Goldie," she whispered. "I'm guessing this doesn't go to Narnia."

"Ton—mmy," Newsie corrected himself, gesturing for the sloth to bring in the camera. The light mounted atop it didn't do much more to chase the gloom; impossible to tell from here how far down the steps went. Newsie looked at Rhonda. She turned her cap around, bill at the back, and flashed a grin.

"We are so gonna hit prime time with this," she said. "To heck with Blanke!"

He nodded agreement, removed his hat, and took another breath. He could smell it, faintly: dampness, filth, must and dust and unkempt fur…

Rhonda prodded him, making him jump. "Well?"

Shooting a glare at her, he felt for any sort of handhold along the wall, and jerked back fingers smudged with slime. "Oh blech!"

"Oh, yeah, Newsie? Ya might not wanna do that," Rhonda said smugly, having noticed the gleam of the stuff in the beam of her light.

"Thanks," he muttered, and took the first step down. Then another. Then another, and looked back to be certain Rhonda and the sloth were actually following. Seeing them cautiously descending after him, he continued on, placing each rubber-booted foot firmly, seeing some glops of…stuff on the concrete stairs as he went. "I told you there were monsters involved," he muttered.

"What, are they especially rotten things?" Rhonda squeaked. "This looks more like stuff the zombies at the party woulda left in their wake! Cripes, what is this crud?" She inadvertently stepped right into a splotch of the goo, and Newsie heard her using some words even Gina didn't usually indulge in. "I knew I shoulda gone with the booties today! These are my favorite deck shoes, dangit!"

"Shhh," Newsie hissed, silencing her. "Listen! …Do you smell something?"

The rat edged down onto the same step he'd paused upon, sniffing. "Uh…sorta. What does it smell like to you?"

"You can't tell?" he asked, astounded. "It's like…like…garbage and dirt and…and…"

"Smells like a bait shop," Tommy murmured right over Newsie's shoulder, making him jump.

"Sloths fish?" Rhonda wondered.

Newsie gulped. "What the hey is going on down here?"

Rhonda poked his leg. "We'll never find out if we just stand here and discuss the smell!"

Nodding, he reluctantly resumed his slow descent. Their lights picked up different colors in the walls and steps, faded red and orange, and suddenly the stairs bottomed out. Rhonda shone her flashlight on the floor; Tommy swept the cameralight over the arched ceiling. Crumbling, dusty bricks formed a narrow but fairly straight passageway. "Holy Eliot Ness! Look how old those bricks are! Newsie, this must be one of those Prohibition tunnels!"

"I didn't know New York had anything like that," he murmured, gazing around; though dirt and more sludge covered the floor of the tunnel, he could see bricks of the same rough color paving the way.

"Sure! There was supposed to be a tunnel like this somewhere in Chinatown…"

"We're in the Bowery," Newsie corrected.

Rhonda smacked his knee, making him crouch and wince, surprised. "And this is heading west, Daniel Boone! Chinatown's that way!" Her voice echoed eerily along the tunnel, and all of them paused, listening.

"Hey, uh," Tommy spoke up slowly, "You guys ever see the first 'Lord of the Rings' movie?"

Gina had coaxed Newsie into attending a marathon showing of all three films at her friend Scott's a couple of months ago. "This isn't Helms' Deep," he growled, but instinctively kept his voice quiet.

A low echo nonetheless traveled a short ways along the tunnel. "Point taken," Rhonda whispered. Slowly, they walked along the corridor. Newsie glanced up; dusty webs of long-dead spiders traced over cracks in the bricks at odd intervals, and something like a tiny centipede scuttled ahead of their lights. He shuddered, and suddenly wished he had something to defend himself with…a stick, a club, even a paintgun he didn't know how to shoot! "What could they possibly use this for?" he whispered to Rhonda.

"Dunno, but someone's used it recently for something," she replied softly, nudging him to point out faint tracks in the sludge underfoot. Newsie stopped, staring at a three-toed footprint that was far larger than his own size-five boot.

"That's not comforting," he muttered.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to check this place out!" the rat hissed, staying close behind him.

The air down here felt chilly, and reeked of offal. He wondered if the slimy sludge coating the bricks of the floor and halfway up the walls was the culprit, but refused to lean any closer to sniff it. Prohibition…why would anyone maintain this tunnel since then? Has it been open all that time? Were the monsters bootleggers? Realizing the absurdity of that thought, he shrugged it off, annoyed. Don't be ridiculous! The monsters didn't run moonshine, they operated the speakeasies! Well, then what are they doing with this? Running illegal drugs into Nofrisko? Using it as an escape route from the office? It doesn't seem to go very deep, he thought, trying to recall how many steps they'd come down to reach this more-or-less level pathway. "Rhonda, how close are we to that ConEd tunnel?"

She pulled her phone out and checked it. "Well, we're deep enough I got no bars at all…"

He frowned. "Why would you think we'd find a bar down here? Just because the tunnel might go back to the 'twenties?"

"You and Beau been blood brothers long?"

"Huh?"

"Forget it. I mean there's no signal down here, Newsie! But, just at a guess…yeah, I think we're close, within a couple blocks at most."

He didn't like the look of the footprints he kept seeing. That one had what looked like webbing between the toes…and that one resembled an enormous pawprint… "Are you sure nothing big could get down here?"

Rhonda didn't reply; when he looked down at her, he saw her swallow hard and twitch nervous whiskers. "Are you filming?" Newsie asked the sloth. Receiving a nod in reply, he returned his attention forward, then paused. "Look…there's the end!"

They peered ahead; their lights picked out the edge of some sort of arched entrance, and a cold, empty dimness beyond. Their steps sounded muffled, the echoes ahead dying, sound swallowed into the open darkness past the arch. Cautiously they approached it, and discovered a large landing of rough-hewn stone. Brick steps curved upward to their right; stone ones wound down to the left. An ordinary door with peeling green paint sat directly across from them. Nervously, Newsie tried the knob. "Locked," he whispered.

"Want me to go back and get Rocco?"

Newsie grabbed the sleeve of the rat before she could run back the way they'd come. "No! That'll waste valuable time." He took a deep breath, then wrinkled his long nose unhappily. "Gahh! Smells like drain cleaner."

"Smells like poison," Rhonda muttered, shivering.

"Smells like a meh—uh. Doesn't smell good," Tommy agreed.

"Up or down?" Rhonda asked.

Newsie considered it. Although he was curious what lay above them, everything he'd found out so far indicated the monsters were holed up somewhere below the city. "Down," he said.

Rhonda scowled. "How'd I know you were gonna say that."

"Come on," Newsie urged, thinking they'd spent a long while just getting this far; at this rate, Beau would finish the first floor and move on to the second before they returned. "We need to find out what they're doing, and get it on film!"

"You really still think this is about monsters?"

Newsie gestured at the slime; the thick trail of it, almost obscuring the stairs, continued down. "You think this is floor polish?"

"You gotta stop hanging around me. You're starting to sound rattish," Rhonda grumbled, but followed him as he carefully placed foot below foot on the treacherously slippery steps.

The smell increased until he had to breathe through his mouth, but the Newsman pushed forward, anxiety balanced nearly equally by his determination to get real proof of the monsters he knew had to be down here – something so irrefutable that Blanke would be shamed into accepting him back at KRAK, something Honeydew wouldn't even have to test to confirm its horrible origin! There, just below: a stronger scent wafted up, so pungent he could taste it; and now he could hear something, a whispering, rustling, moving – Newsie froze. Rhonda bumped into him with a stifled curse. "Could ya warn me?" she squeaked. "I just stepped in –"

"Run," he huffed, nearly choking on the scent, a billow of it blowing up from the stairs ahead. The noise increased: a thousand scrabbling claws, a thousand clacking jaws, a sound of – "Rhonda, run!" Newsie yelled, tripping over the step behind him as he tried to reverse course.

His nose had not been wrong.

The rat shrieked. Two of the things burst around the turn of the staircase, bug-jaws snapping, bug-legs whisking over the steps and the walls, stalk-eyes focusing on them, purple fur bristling all along the endless backs of the giant, multisectioned creatures. Tommy staggered, nearly dropping the camera as Newsie pushed past him; the reporter grabbed the sloth's shoulder and yanked him up. Rhonda was five steps ahead, dignity abandoned, running on all four paws, leaping from stair to stair. Screeching, one of the monsters lunged at Newsie; he flattened himself against the wall, gasping, and when the thing pulled back for another try, he grabbed the camera away from the struggling sloth and swung it as hard as he could. The mic in front crunched, but so did the chitinous jaws. The monster roared, and tumbled into its partner, and Newsie shoved the sloth ahead of him, turning to run backwards, pointing the lens roughly at the second thing scrabbling around the wounded one to come after him. They'd reached the landing again. Newsie pushed Tommy toward the brick archway, but heard Rhonda yelling: "Up here! Up here!"

He looked up: Rhonda stood on one of the carpeted steps leading up, waving desperately at him. Just as he changed direction, he saw something she didn't: the carpet she stood on was moving just above her. "Rhonda, no!" he shouted, too late. The rat screamed as the soft thing she clung to suddenly rolled and bucked, tumbling her upwards toward a gaping, slimy, toothless maw. "Rhonda!"

"Holy sh—" the sloth exclaimed, catching the camera as Newsie slung it aside. The Newsman clambered up the steps, reaching his friend just as the sluglike thing tried to gulp her down; she flailed ineffectually on its broad, slippery tongue. Newsie grabbed one of her paws and heaved; they flipped down the steps, crashing onto the landing. Rhonda was screaming. Newsie, barely thinking, simply shoved her bodily inside his coverall and staggered to his feet. Tommy kept filming, backing along the brick corridor.

"Move it!" Newsie screamed, shoving the camerasloth. Tommy didn't argue, hanging onto the camera and loping faster than he'd ever moved before. Newsie glanced back to see the slug-thing and the centipede-thing collide, snap at one another, then turn their attention to the tunnel. The cameralight picked up the gleam of multiple tiny eyes approaching fast. Oh frog oh frog chest hurts burning why am I burning is Rhonda still in there run dear frog run – His thoughts a blur, the Newsman pounded hard along the tunnel, panting, overtaking and then half-dragging the sloth along. Stupid this was stupid oh frog don't want to die eaten by BUGS!

They burst through the closet door into the lobby, startling Beau, with a detail brush in one hand atop a ladder to get the ceiling corner, and Rocco, halfway out the front door with his second load of office computing equipment. "Run d—it! Ruuunnn!" Newsie shrieked at them.

Rocco vanished, the stack of laptops crashing to the carpet. Beau blinked at the uproar. "But…I'm not done with the touch-ups!" he protested.

Newsie let go of Tommy, who staggered out the front door after the pawnshop-bound rat. Newsie yanked Beauregard off the ladder. "Never mind that Beau! The truck! Get in the truck!"

"But – all our tarps!"

Somehow Newsie got Beau into the driver's seat; somehow a harried Beau found the keys and put the groaning old truck into gear in spite of the reporter screaming at him. Gasping, Newsie looked out the passenger window as they pulled away; a dark tentacle slithered around the open edge of the Nofrisko front door – and slammed it shut. What happened in the tunnel would stay in the tunnel.

Sobbing, his chest on fire, Newsie tore open the coverall. Rhonda clung to him, wheezing, and now he saw the cause of the pain: half her clothes were dissolved, and so was a section of his undershirt. Slimy green gunk coated her fur, her eyes squeezed shut. With a choked cry, Newsie dug out a handkerchief and wiped her face. "Rhonda! Rhonda!"

"I…hate…your frogd—d stories," she gurgled, and slumped against him.

"Are we going back to the theatre?" Beau asked, glancing worriedly at the half-undressed Newsman with the slimy rat, then back at the sloth crouched below the truckbed railings, still clutching a battered camera. "Kermit's not going to be happy! Those special corner rollers cost a lot!"

"For frog's sake, Beau, the hospital! Take us to the hospital!" Newsie groaned, the stuff coating Rhonda burning into his felt; he shook her gently with one hand, grimacing when his fingers suddenly seemed to catch fire at the contact with whatever digestive fluid the slug-thing had spewed on her. "Rhonda! Wake up! Rhonda!"

Beau stared at him a split second with wide eyes; then he spun the steering wheel hard, ignoring the horns and brakes screeching all around, and ramped the truck onto the sidewalk to avoid another car. "Watch it! Comin' through!" he yelled out the window. "Move it! Woooooooooooooooo!" His siren impression was convincing enough to make people stop or get out of the way. Although it only took him three minutes to reach Organ General, it seemed forever to Newsie, who kept prodding the unconscious rat, begging her to respond. "Do we want the emergency entrance?" Beau asked.

"Yes! Yes!"

"Okay!" Another hard turn, and the thump of the wheels over a curb, and a dazed Newsie fell out of the truck cab when the passenger door flew open at the crunching stop right in the admitting lobby of the hospital. He struggled to his feet, cradling Rhonda, and a nurse ran over to see what the matter was.

"Help her!" Newsie begged, holding out the unresponsive, smoking rat. The nurse recoiled.

"A rat? Hey, we don't –"

"She's my friend, d—it!" Newsie roared, then fell into a coughing fit, his throat hoarse. A young man in a doctor's coat knelt by him, pushing the nurse aside.

"Good lord, what did she fall into?" the doctor asked. Newsie shook his head, unable to answer, and the doctor scooped Rhonda up in gloved hands. The doctor swiped a fingerful of the goop off the rat's midsection into a small jar and handed it to the flustered nurse. "I need this analyzed stat, and clear a space in Triage Four!" He ran with Rhonda in both hands through a swinging door; another attendant stopped Newsie from following, then saw the burns on the Muppet's chest and hands.

"You too! You, get that truck out of here! It's not sterile!" the attendant snapped first at the Newsman, then Beauregard, hustling Newsie through the triage doorway. Newsie saw the doctor rinsing Rhonda under an open shower in one corner, swiftly washing as much of the slimy stuff off her limp body as he could; the instant he stepped out of the shower, the second nurse shoved Newsie under it, unsnapping his coverall the rest of the way and roughly tugging it off him despite the Newsman's weak protests. His shirt was ripped free as well, splitting down the front where the goop had eaten through the fabric to his felt. Shivering in nothing but boxers and socks, he tried to focus on what they were doing to Rhonda; the doctor had her on one of the triage gurneys and seemed to be checking her with his stethoscope while a nurse attempted to insert a needle in one tiny arm. Rhonda coughed, and relief swept through him even as his nurse hustled him out of the emergency shower and onto another padded gurney. He tried to see around the people tending him, feeling dizzy, needing to know how badly Rhonda was hurt. He was barely aware of a towel patting him dry, of his heart and breath being checked, of salve being spread on his burns. He started when something sharp poked his left wrist, and frowned at the IV, forcing himself to look back at Rhonda before he could faint; he'd never liked needles. The room was a blur of movement and a cacophony of voices.

"…burned all the fur off…" the doctor was saying.

"How do we cross-match for…" a tech complained.

"Get me the results…"

"This one looks okay, minor burns," the nurse examining Newsie called out.

"Is she all right?" Newsie gulped, trying to get someone's attention. "Rhonda!"

"Pulse looks strong, start treatment for third-degree chemical burns," the doctor said, then turned to Newsie. "What happened?"

"We…we were underground, a tunnel, under Nofrisko," Newsie gasped, the sting on his chest and fingers dulling; he felt remarkably aware of his heartbeat, a somewhat disturbing sensation. "A…a slug tried to eat her…"

"A slug? You're saying a slug did this?" the doctor asked, incredulous.

"It was a really big slug," Newsie mumbled. He clutched the edge of the gurney, feeling weak, desperate to stay conscious.

The doctor shone a penlight in his eyes; Newsie blinked, startled. "Pupils dilated. Run a tox screen," the doctor told the tech applying a clean bandage around Newsie's chest.

"I'm not drugged," Newsie said. "We...we have proof! We have film!"

"Your friend's lucky to be alive," the doctor told him. "Can you tell me what the substance is on her?"

"Slug spit," Newsie said, shaking his head. "I don't know! Whatever monster slugs have!"

The doctor turned back to Rhonda, laying still but breathing, with a huge-looking needle incongruously taped to her wrist to keep it in. Newsie gulped. "Watch the film! Our camerasloth is in the waiting room…watch the film! I'm not drugged!" He did feel nauseous, however; could whatever stench he'd been breathing down there have affected him? What if he had hallucinated this? No, no! It was all on film, and these people would see it, and then they'd believe him!

The nurse who'd objected to a rat in the hospital entered, and conferred privately with the doctor. He appeared startled, then darted from the room. Newsie stared at Rhonda, who was gently being slathered with some sort of burn cream from neck to feet. Her fur was indeed gone. Realizing he was seeing a naked coworker, Newsie flushed and averted his gaze, stealing uneasy glances at the nurse treating her. Oh, Rhonda, I'm sorry! This is my fault! We never should have gone in after we saw the slime trail; that was just asking for trouble! Ill, he jumped an inch off the pallet when the doctor touched his shoulder. He stared up at the frowning physician.

"Where did you say you were?" the doctor demanded.

"A…a tunnel, under the Nofrisko offices, on Bowery," Newsie managed, his mouth dry. "We…we shouldn't have gone…we saw the slime, and went ahead anyway…that thing was waiting for us…horrible things!" He shivered.

The doctor gently wrapped a light fleece blanket over his shoulders. His gaze was serious. "I just looked at that film your…your sloth shot. I've notified Animal Control and the CDC. We're still analyzing the slime, but I can already tell you it's strongly basic. The opposite of acid, but just as caustic," he explained, seeing the confused look on Newsie's face.

"I didn't know there was an agency just to handle Animal," Newsie muttered. "Good luck with that…" Some of what the doc had said penetrated his dazed mind, and he perked. "You—you believe me? You saw the slug?"

"Buddy, if that's a slug, I'm Jonas Salk," the doctor replied grimly. "Take it easy. Once we've figured out what's in your system we'll treat you for it. Meantime, try to rest. Your friend's going to be okay…it may take a long while to grow her fur back, though. Start an oxygen line on him too," he told a tech, and Newsie suffered tubing being hooked over his ears to stay in his nose. The doctor frowned. "You look sort of familiar."

"The Newsman, KRAK," Newsie gulped, trying to take deep breaths.

"I see. Going after a story, were you? Next time, leave it to the authorities, okay?"

"They didn't believe me," Newsie said. "We had to get proof."

Slowly the doctor nodded, looking back at Rhonda. "Well, I'd say now you have it."

Newsie nodded, calming slowly. "Can I…borrow a phone? Need to call someone…"

The doctor pulled out a cell phone, but before he could hand it over, an older man in a white coat hurried over and looked Newsie up and down with sharp eyes. "This the one?" At the first doctor's nod, the second shook Newsie's hand. "Melvin Cosgrove, CDC. I was downstairs checking out a possible TB case, so until a team gets here, I'll be handling your case as well. I need all the details. Where did you encounter this creature?"

Summoning what strength and concentration he could, the Newsman told the investigator all he knew about the strange Nofrisko corporation, from the odd ingredients for Shamrockies to the secret tunnel leading to a nest of monstrous invertebrates, relieved that finally, finally, someone was paying attention, and finally, something would be done.


	29. Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. _In which Rhonda is not happy with her lack of fur; Newsie is not happy with the SWAT raid; and the Underlord is not happy and that's not good for anybody._

Monday the twenty-fourth was a normal autumn day, with a crisp blue canopy beyond the skyscrapers, and just enough of a chill in the air to have the morning commuters bundled in trendy sweaters and jackets. The only thing _not_ typical, Beaker reflected unhappily, was that today his usual manual labor involved lugging equipment piled unsteadily in a Red Flyer wagon which really should have been transported in a truck or a van instead. Beaker grunted and pulled, strained and puffed, and slowly dragged the wagonful of delicate surveillance electronics along the sharply curving street.

From the steps of the condemned hotel, Bunsen called: "What took you so long? Come on, Beakie! A little exercise won't kill you!" He took a deep breath, removing his wrist and head sweatbands with a joyful air. "Just smell that clean fall air! Jogging over here was a _wonderful_ idea!"

Beaker wheezed past an alley just as a garbage truck roared out; only a screaming burst of energy saved the wagon and its Muppet from being creamed underwheel. Bits of stinking trash sprayed over Beaker, and he coughed harshly.

"Come along, lots to do today!" Bunsen chirped happily, opening the front doors and brushing the fresh cobwebs out of the way. "I think perhaps first we should see about shoring up that landing some more, before we attempt to install the upper-level cameras and signal boosters…" He trotted inside, ignoring his assistant's vain struggles to heave the wagon up the front steps. Sighing, weary, Beaker began unloading the equipment and carrying it in an armful at a time. Irritated, Honeydew chided: "Don't leave all that in the street, Beaker! That equipment is very valuable!" Immediately numerous early-morning residents turned speculative eyes on the wagon, whereas before no one had paid any attention to the scientists. Hurriedly Beaker shoved the wagon up the stairs and inside the hotel lobby.

"Very good, Beakie! Now, what say I check the wiring plan for the surveillance system while you go make sure that staircase is safe?" Turning away, Bunsen hummed "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" (with tuneless whistles) as he unrolled the tube of technical drawings he'd made for the operation. Beaker, exhausted, brought out a MuppAid bottle, but Bunsen plucked it from his hand before he could take a drink. "Strawberry Muppafruit flavor! How thoughtful, Beakie! One should always rehydrate after a good jog." Beaker stared at Bunsen as he gulped the entire bottle and then handed it back. "Don't forget to recycle, please. Now go on and get that landing fixed!"

Grumbling to himself, Beaker took the Muppet Labs Electric Hammer (Mk XXVIII) up to the first grand landing on the formerly-elegant curving staircase. He lined up the laser-sight with the rough boards serving as patchwork for the broken balustrade, made sure he was out of the line of fire, and started the hammer. _Whack! Whack! Whack!_ As the machine did its job correctly, fastening the railing back onto the edge of the stairs, Beaker relaxed a little. Remembering he'd brought another bottle of MuppAid, he trotted down the stairs to fetch it and took a satisfying swallow. _Whack! Whack! Whack!_ At least with that gadget hammering away, all the spiders should be scared off…

"Beaker, what are you doing?" Honeydew demanded. "You're supposed to be securing the staircase so we can _use_ it, not blocking it off!"

"Mee meep mee me mee…" Beaker began a protest, then fell silent, mouth hanging open, as he saw the hammer whacking into place the last nail, fastening the railing straight across the start of the next flight of stairs. As it had been engineered to do, the hammer powered down, awaiting something else to nail. Shoulders slumped, Beaker trudged up the stairs and found the rails firmly embedded in the landing. He grunted and strained, trying to budge them. Muttering curses, he stepped in front of the hammer to try for better leverage to move the railing. The hammer whirred into life. _"Meeeee!"_

"Beaker! Stop messing around and get that railing out of the way!"

 _Whack! Whack! Whack! Whiirrrrrrump._

Terror past, pain kicked in. With nails protruding from his nose, fingers, and shoulders fastening him to the misplaced railing, Beaker groaned, then began the arduous process of freeing himself. He managed to tug one hand loose and was pulling the nail out of his nose when the hammer started again. _"Meee!"_ _Whack!_ Beaker yanked his head down past his collar, and the hammer missed, thunking a nail into the railing behind him. _"Mee! Mee meep!" Whack!_

"Beaker! We really don't have time for this!" Bunsen yelled, growing impatient. "Don't make me come up there!" _Whack. Whack. Whack._

 _"Meeeeeeeeee!"_

Camilla let the phone ring until she reached the recording again: "This voice mailbox is full. Please try back another time." Worried, she hung up. Gonzo was usually prompt about checking his messages! Could he just be so busy planning his next act that he'd forgotten all about his _life?_ Had he forgotten about _her?_ She'd watched the results show last night, while all around her feathered castmates snored unconcernedly in their straw-padded beds. After Saturday's astoundingly dangerous performance, of course the Great Gonzo had advanced another round. Montrose the Mouse seemed to have left the show, and the host announced last night that Wyatt Slurp had been voted off as well, narrowing the field of competitors. Camilla had barely noticed the snail sharpshooter desperately blasting away with both guns as a heap of small monsters pounced on him following the announcement; she only had eyes for her Gonzo, who'd whooped at the crowd, snorted a fistful of red-hots up his nose, and then pelted them at the front rows of the studio audience as an encore. The next episode wouldn't be until Wednesday night…so why wouldn't Gonzo answer his phone?

Camilla didn't know if she hoped he'd heard all of her messages or not: perhaps it would be better if he hadn't…at least then she could feel he wasn't deliberately ignoring her! At the party, Blackie the rooster, drunk on one too many cups of sweet cider, had made several passes at her until she'd jumped on his head and scratched him silly. She knew Bertie and some of the other hens thought she was a fool: Blackie was so handsome, so debonair, and he really did look good in that tux. But no…her heart beat only for the Whatever. Why, oh why, wasn't he even clearing out his voicemails?

She pecked at the TV remote, flipping through channels. She paused when she heard an ad blaring loudly for the very show she dreaded: _"Wednesday, Wednesday,_ Wednesday on MMN! It's down to the last three contestants! One of them _will_ be exterminated! _Who_ will advance to the championship round, and who will be eaten alive? This coming Wednesday, on _Break a Leg!"_ Several clips from the past show flashed past: Camilla clucked softly when she saw Gonzo diving into the barrel of acid with a whoosh of reactive steam. This could _only_ get worse! "Now back to daytime drowsiness with views you can lose, on MMN's _Amscray Show!"_

She stared dully a moment, not interested in the two snickering Grouch ladies sampling vinegar wine with moldy hors d'ouvres in a studio with rats shrieking and pounding on the windows right behind them; one held up a handmade sign reading _Please Help Us!_ Sighing, Camilla clicked through the channels, finally giving up and leaving the TV tuned to a local morning news report while she gathered up her washcloth and oatmeal-scented French soap. Usually her morning dip refreshed her mind as well as her feathers, but today she felt no peace.

Until she knew why Gonzo wouldn't talk to her, nothing would be right.

"Which key is it?" Rizzo asked, balancing skillfully atop a stack of unhappy rodents.

"Do I live here?" Rhonda snapped. She wriggled her shoulders unhappily inside the thick fur coat. "Gawd, Rizzo, why'd ya have to pick rabbit fur?"

"Hey, da rabbit wasn't too happy about it either," Rizzo shot back, trying one after another of the keys on Gina's ring in the doorknob and the deadbolt. "You wouldn't believe how many carrots I hadda promise to get it! How about a, 'Gee, thanks Rizzo, for gettin' me a new coat for my bizarrely furless bod,' or 'you're so kind to escort me over here,' or –"

"Or _hurry up_ and open the door already 'cause I feel ridiculous in this danged outfit!" Rhonda yelled.

"Boy, somebody woke up on da grumpy side'a da bed," Rhonda's brother Rory muttered, trying to keep his feet steady on another rat's shoulders while his son Roombert puffed atop his in the rat-stack needed to reach the locks on the apartment door.

"Why ain'tcha comin' home with us, Rhonda?" asked Philby Rat, her youngest brother.

Rhonda snorted. "As if I'd get anything done with you schmucks filling up _my_ place! You're _all_ lucky Newsie's girl offered me a stay here, 'cause if I was at home right now, I'd be making myself a _new_ coat outta _all_ of you!" Rizzo managed to unlock the door, and the pile fell inside as he pushed it open, with many a grunt and complaint. Rhonda breezed through it, her coat clutched tight around her. "Careful with the electronics, guys. Just set it on the coffee table." As six of her strongest nephews careened and careered into the main room bearing her Powerbook on their backs, Rhonda climbed onto the sofa and fought the urge to itch. "Aggh! I _hate_ scratchy coats!"

"You're welcome," Rizzo grumbled. "So, uh, will there be anything _else,_ your pinkie-ness?" Several of the rats tittered; one yelped when Rhonda beaned him with a thrown coaster from the coffee table.

"Yeah – you can bring me some actual _clothes!_ Now go on, get outta here!" Fuming, Rhonda slouched on the sofa until Rizzo and all her relatives had exited the apartment, then sighed and stretched and opened the coat to examine her furless torso. "Wonderful. I look like a freakin' mole rat. Geez." At least she could hole up here for the day, away from snickering brothers and too-curious nieces and overly sympathetic sisters-in-law. With a sigh, she booted up the laptop and plugged the memory card from the videocamera into it. "Let's see just how much of the horror we got on film…"

Although the running and dodging and screaming detracted from the footage somewhat, Rhonda could tell that _anyone_ seeing this would definitely pay attention. "Holy ickfest," she muttered, shivering at the sequence of herself writhing helplessly on the tongue of the Slug That Slimed Manhattan. She stared in shock, watching Newsie bound up the stairs to yank her out of the slug's mouth right before the slobbery lips clamped shut. Reflexively she wrapped the coat tighter around her. _If he hadn't grabbed me…_ She shuddered, unwilling to complete the thought. Seeing the monsters chasing the camera all the way back through the tunnel wasn't pleasant either; she'd been in too much pain at the time to be aware of much besides the mothball smell of the coverall she'd been stuffed into. When she could finally unclench her fingers enough to stop the playback, she consciously let out the breath she'd held, and tried to objectively consider how much of this could be shown. She was positive that once Gina saw it, Newsie would be grounded to the apartment for at least the rest of the year for his own safety…

She checked the time. In just a few minutes, her rescuer and star reporter would have even better footage to add to this. Cracking her knuckles, she got to work editing.

-  
The SWAT team leader conferred with the head of the CDC team; Dr Cosgrove bore in hand a warrant to search the premises and any tunnels underground connected to the premises for toxic materials or creatures. The Newsman stood well behind them, fidgeting, pacing, while Tommy checked to be sure the microphone Newsie held was broadcasting wirelessly on a wavelength which wouldn't interfere with the police radios. _Finally, finally! Those cops look prepared for anything,_ he thought, though he worried they hadn't all taken his warning about monsters seriously; he'd overheard some of them talking about capturing a venomous animal in the basement. A couple of guys from Animal Control (which, surprisingly, had nothing to do with the Muppet drummer) also stood behind the well-armed police team. Newsie jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. Dr Cosgrove gazed grimly at him.

"I wanted to remind you that although _we_ can act on this matter as a public health threat, _you_ may still be facing legal action from the owners," Cosgrove said. Newsie nodded. He'd already tried to contact Blander about that this morning, only to be told the lawyer hadn't come into the office yet. Although Rhonda was insisting they all claim the Nofrisko offices had been unlocked and any items already "missing" when they arrived to investigate yesterday, Newsie reminded the rat that they'd still technically trespassed. He didn't feel right about lying to the authorities, but Rhonda had promised she would personally deal with her thieving little nephew…when she found him. Not that Newsie regretted any of it…except that he'd been too persistent in exploring, even after he smelled the stench getting worse, and Rhonda… Unhappy, he forced himself to focus on the present moment: the SWAT team was moving into position around the front door and windows of the Nofrisko office, which seemed strangely quiet. Banging on the door had brought no answer a few minutes ago, although it was after nine o'clock on a workday. Was it Columbus Day or something? Newsie couldn't recall. It didn't matter: the CDC was about to make sure _this_ office was closed for business.

WHOMP! The battering ram popped the front door off its hinges. With yells and weapons in hand, the SWAT team flooded the front lobby. Newsie hurried after them, gesturing for the sloth to film. Hoarsely he narrated as he ran: "The SWAT team has just broken down the door of this corporate giant's main office! Any second now, monsters will be swarming up from the underbelly of the city to challenge them!" He hoped the mic caught Cosgrove yelling out the warrant. Police in riot gear yanked open the door to the actual offices and raced down the hall; peering past them nervously, Newsie couldn't see anyone at all in the glassed-in cubicles. "Through here!" he called, pointing out the closet door, where CDC agents covered head to toe in anti-contamination suits gathered. One of the SWAT team pulled open the door, another raised his rifle, Newsie cringed back, the sloth filmed – a concrete wall.

"What?" Newsie choked. "No!"

"You're sure this is where you were?" Cosgrove asked him.

"Positive! This – this was a door to a stairway! Straight down!" Newsie stared, astonished, while the cop rapped the butt of his gun against the block of concrete completely filling what had been a doorway. It _thunked_ solidly.

"This hasn't completely set yet," another cop noted, brushing the surface of the concrete with a gloved thumb, pasty white stuff coming off. "This is fresh work."

"Break it down!" Newsie urged them.

Cosgrove shook his head. "We'll need construction equipment for that. I'll put in a call to the Mayor's office, see if he can speed up the work order in the interest of public safety…"

"Building's clear," another SWAT member reported, returning to the lobby. "No one here."

"They – they must've cleared out after we found the monsters!" Newsie exclaimed. "Wait – the elevator! Go to the basement! It's some kind of restricted level; maybe there's another way into the tunnel from there!" He hadn't found anything when he'd poked around under Tonkin's smug supervision, but these guys had resources he didn't…like height, and muscle, and guns… Blushing a little, Newsie led them to the elevator. "There! See? It needs a key – can you guys get in?"

At a nod from the police sargeant, one of the men knelt and unscrewed the panel to the elevator buttons. While he worked on the wiring, Newsie turned to the other SWAT members milling around. "You should all be careful! That…slug-thing had corrosive spit! And who knows what a bite from the centipede-thing will do!"

The cops exchanged querying looks. "Hey, look, bud…we already heard there was some kinda wild animal down here, and that the owners might be armed. If you're worried about bugs, maybe you shoulda notified an exterminator instead?" one joked. Another chuckled.

"This isn't about bugs! They only look sort of like bugs! They're _monsters!"_ Newsie protested angrily.

"Please don't tell me this weirdo is our informant," another cop muttered.

Flushed, angry, Newsie noticed the sloth still filming. He almost yelled _cut,_ then realized he might be able to turn this to his advantage. Addressing the camera directly, he said, "Clearly, the authorities find it difficult to believe this reporter! I won't speculate as to whether this is due to the unusual nature of the story, or if some of these men have unkind opinions of Muppets!" Talking with the lawyer this past week had made him understand prejudice could be very subtle, and more widespread than he'd ever suspected.

"Muppets I believe in," the cop snapped at him. "Giant monster bugs, no!"

"Weren't _any_ of you shown the film footage from my disastrous venture yesterday?" Newsie asked, perturbed.

"What film?"

"Man, whatever."

At the general negative rumbling through the cops, Newsie turned alarmed to Cosgrove, who was tucking his cell phone into a pocket as he approached. "Well, luckily I was able to stress the importance of this operation to the Mayor's office. They're sending out a contractor and his team next Tuesday."

"Tomorrow?" Newsie asked.

 _"Next_ Tuesday. The first of November."

"What!" Newsie grasped the doctor's sleeve. "But this is terrible! We need to root out these horrible things _now_ before they spread all over the city! And…and why didn't you show the film to the SWAT team? They need to know what they're getting into!"

"The decision was made to treat this as a toxic-material raid," Cosgrove said stiffly, removing his sleeve from the Muppet reporter's fingers. "We analyzed the substance which burned you and the rat, and there isn't any known animal capable of producing that specific organic compound. Most likely, someone with a dangerous knowledge of biochemistry has played a horrible prank on you."

"But – but – no!" Newsie gasped.

The specialist fussing with the wiring called out, "Got it!"

"Go down and check it out," the sargeant ordered.

Newsie struggled to get into the car with them, only to be shoved back. "Please, sir. Civilians stay back until the area is secured."

"No, wait!" Newsie cried. "You're in terrible danger! This isn't a pet snake that got loose, or a chemical spill! This is a nest of horrible, spitting, vicious _monsters!"_

"Found this in the big office upstairs," one of the CDC team said, walking over to show Cosgrove a Petri dish with dark slime contained within: even with the lid closed, Newsie recognized the smell. "It was all over the floor, along with some animal hair, possibly feline." He held up an evidence bag with a few strands of light tan fur inside.

Newsie paled. "It ate Tonkin!"

The elevator doors closed; Newsie whirled to see the indicator light above it showing _B._ "No! No, no! There could be _things_ down there!"

"Look, we'll let you down in a minute, bub," another cop growled at him, pushing him away from the elevator again.

Despairing, Newsie pressed a hand to his brow: this wasn't going at all the way he'd thought it would! Looking at Tommy's camera lens still pointing his way, Newsie took a deep breath and stammered: "It…it seems things have become even worse here at Nofrisko. _Slime_ has just been recovered from the office of the CEO which looks and _smells_ exactly like the monsters this reporter encountered below…along with possible cat fur. It should be noted that the CEO was, in fact, a cat." He swallowed hard, anxious.

After a minute, the elevator dinged again. Newsie stepped back, half-expecting a monster to roar out when the door opened, but the only creature which did was one of the police. He gestured at Cosgrove. "Found something. Your guys might wanna take a look." He glanced at Newsie. "Guess it's safe enough you can get a shot for your news story, if you want."

Confused, Newsie nevertheless beckoned for Tommy, and they piled into the elevator along with Cosgrove and another of the CDC doctors. He _knew_ there'd been something hidden down here! Could it be a torture chamber? A nest of monster eggs? He shuddered, clutching his microphone tightly. He wondered if it would work as a club, if needed…

He stayed behind the armed policeman as they entered the basement. All the lockers and cabinets had been opened and the contents tossed out. Then he saw what the team had found: they'd shoved aside a whole row of tall metal lockers to reveal another room. Unlike the concrete, barren basement, this room was tiled in bright white ceramic; drainage grates punctured the floor at regular intervals. A metal table in the center of the room made Newsie think of a morgue. Shivering, he fell back another step. Cosgrove went to a long metal counter holding all kinds of shattered laboratory glassware. "Looks like a meth lab," one of the cops said.

Cosgrove cautiously sniffed one of the empty flasks sitting on the counter. "No…drugs, but not that kind. This is much too sophisticated for your common street lab."

Tommy panned the camera, taking in the pile of smashed glassware along one wall, the greenish fluid staining the floor in that area, the deeply gouged clawmarks in the tilework. Newsie gulped. "Uh…uh…it seems that whatever was going on here, someone wrecked the evidence before the police arrived!"

"Get a sample of that," Cosgrove told one of his assistants, indicating the dried green stuff.

"What the heck did _that?"_ a cop wondered, staring at the deep clawmarks; they were up to seven feet off the floor, and had gone through the ceramic tiles like Styrofoam, leaving ragged edges. Newsie carefully stepped closer to examine them, Tommy filming over his shoulder. When he touched the bottom edge of a furrow, the tile beneath it loosed and crashed to the floor. Two cops swung around with guns upraised, and Newsie nearly panicked.

"Whoa! Whoa! Press!" he shouted, throwing his hands up. Disgusted, the cops lowered their weapons, and a shaken Muppet glared at the camera. _Oh, great. Rhonda's going to love that._ Glumly, he realized perhaps allowing his producer and editor to have a laugh at his expense was slim payment for what had happened to her. Shaking his head, he peered up at the clawmarks. He didn't recall either the slug-thing or the bug-thing having multiple toes like this: this reminded him more of a grizzly bear attack, or a violent tiger… With another shudder, he stretched on tiptoe to see how deep the marks went, and heard a crunch under his shoe. Looking down, he froze: the pieces and shards of grayish-white, hardened clay reminded him of…of…

"Snookie," he gasped. "Oh my frog! _Snookie!"_

Pieces of clay with names upon them; monsters underground with their own TV network; game shows – _game shows!_ Ethel had told him Chester had gone into the show-hosting trade – the phone number had gone to the studio which filmed shows for MMN – MMN ran monsterish game shows – that visitor had been to a show taping – _"Deadly!"_ Newsie shouted, startling the others. "Deadly knows where my cousin is!"

"What's with him?" one of the cops wondered.

Cosgrove gestured for another doctor to take Newsie out of the room. "He may still be suffering aftereffects of the poison in his system yesterday…or perhaps that green substance just triggered a relapse. Quarantine this area! Sargeant Hill, have your men return to the street. We need to seal off and test this entire building for toxins!"

"I'm fine!" Newsie argued, struggling as two of the cops hefted him with them into the elevator. Tommy followed unhindered, still filming the scientists exploring the room as he retreated. "Wait, wait, you don't understand! It's all connected! This _has_ to be part of it; the monsters were here!" Before the door closed, he shouted to Cosgrove, "Nofrisko was making cakes that caused monsterphobia! What if the monsters didn't know? What if they attacked them when they found out?" But the elevator shut, and the cops held him firmly by both arms and escorted him out of the building when they reached the first level.

Anguished, overcome, Newsie strode angrily up and down in front of the cheerful Fwinkie sign. "That must be it! What if Tonkin was being forced to allow the monsters access to the street through that tunnel, and had started work on a chemical to fight…" No, that didn't make sense! "Why would he want people _more_ afraid of monsters?" he muttered, halting his pacing a moment. "Those things are horrible _enough_ to send anyone running once they get a look!" His fingers felt as though they were near an open flame; startled, he looked down and realized he'd brushed them through the substance splattered on the wall. It didn't smell quite the same as the slug slime, however. Quickly he waved down a cab. "Tony, we have to get to the theatre, quick! Muppet Labs can tell us what this stuff is!" He glanced back at the office, where CDC agents were stapling plastic sheeting over the front of the building; he understood he couldn't expect any help with his story from that quarter. If they'd covered up the monsters from the SWAT team, they certainly weren't going to tell _him_ what they found in that mysterious basement lab.

The sloth climbed into the cab, asking slowly while Newsie awkwardly got in without using his green-smeared hand: "Dude…should I keep filming?"

"Not now," Newsie said, gave the driver the Muppet Theatre address, and looked back grimly at the quarantined office as they drove away. "Wait until we have more information." _Why would there be a secret lab below Nofrisko, if they make their cakes in New Jersey? Why would the monsters have wrecked it? Is Tonkin dead? Why would they have made monsterphobia-inducing snacks if they're working with the monsters?_

Frustrated, he stared at his stained fingers. Was he being poisoned even now? "Hurry!" he urged the driver.

"Dude…did you notice?" Tony spoke up.

"What?" Newsie muttered, paying scant attention, more concerned about whatever possibly dangerous substance he'd unwittingly exposed himself to.

"All the furniture was broken. Somebody was sure pi—"

"What?" Newsie stared at the sloth. He hadn't even noticed the state of the offices, focused on getting downstairs to that tunnel.

Tommy nodded. "Yeah, dude. Whole place was trashed. Guess we really stirred up some sh—"

"Why would they trash the office?"

The sloth shrugged, which took him half a minute. "Who knows, man? Hey, uh, y'know, I kinda got the munchies…can we stop for some chips or something?"

"No!" Disgusted, the Newsman studied his green fingertips. _Whatever's going on down there…the monsters are cleaning house. And if Chester is down there somewhere…what might they do to him?_ Shivering, he rebuttoned his coat, hoping Bunsen and Beaker would be able to tell him what the secret lab had been cooking up, hoping he'd be able to figure out what specifically had angered the monsters enough to destroy the office (and what about the workers? where were _they?)_ , and hoping that if Chester Blyer was trapped down there somewhere, he could hold out until the Newsman could find him.

When Eustace returned to the control hub, the Frackles lowered their eyes and shuffled out of the way. He paused; they weren't usually respectful enough to avoid his wrath. What was going on? Maybe the underlord had explained to them they ought to be more contrite to his favorite, right-claw monster…

Then the voice came over the intercom. "Eustace. In here."

The Frackles shrank back, and Eustace suddenly realized they weren't afraid _of_ him…they were afraid _for_ him. Gulping down a sudden mouthful of bile, the doglizard slowly opened the inner sanctum door and crept through. He wasn't entirely prepared for the door to slam behind him, crunching the tip of his long tail. Stifling his yelp quickly, he stood with eyes averted. The dark, bulky shape in the control seat didn't move, but the voice was firm: _"Here._ Now, if you please."

Eustace shuffled slowly toward the chair; suddenly he gurgled, yanked into the air by his throat, a strong hand choking him. _"WHY is this happening!"_ the underlord roared.

"Gahh…agg…erg…what, my lord?" Eustace managed to reply.

The powerful hand shook him like a floppy toy; abruptly his face was shoved before a screen showing that short yellow reporter pacing on a sidewalk. Eustace, dazed, was able to recognize it as the front entrance to that snack-food office after a few seconds. _"THIS!"_ His Huge-and-dangerousness bellowed. "You told me this Muppet was _dead!_ _WHY_ then do I see him _VERY MUCH ALIVE_ and accompanying the humans on a _raid_ at our food-tainting facility?"

"Aggh…gahhr…your d-darknessss…pleassse…" The hand released him, and Eustace dropped to the floor, wobbling, gasping. "I…I cannot exxxplain it, Your Sssliminesss! It wasss reported to me Ssaturday night that the ssstrike team had brought him back to the tunnelsss and fed him to Even Bigger Mama!"

A pointed fingernail jabbed the soft tip of the doglizard's wet nose. "Clearly, your intel was _wrong._ There is _no excuse_ for this!" A click of a keyboard, and the image of the reporter and a lanky creature with a videocamera froze. The boss tapped the screen. _"This_ animal I saw with the rats and that gray thing, pretending to paint the office. Yet clearly he works for the Muppet. Which suggests the little nuisance in plaid was behind the break-in yesterday! Do you understand how much this… _disturbs_ me, Eustace? Especially as _you_ had assured me he would no longer be a problem?"

Eustace nodded frantically. "Yesss, yesss, of courssse, my liege! Clearly, the report was missstaken! _Errrg!"_ He gagged, lifted off the floor again.

"I do not permit…mistakes," the low voice hissed softly. "Fix it. Now. Or _you_ will be fed to the wonderfully obese Mama clan… _as a protein smoothie!"_

"Yess my lord! At onsse my lord! Absssolutely my lord!" Eustace yelped, running out the door as fast as he could once the terrible hand released him.

Alone in his black silence once again, the underlord scowled at the image of the frightened reporter. Blocking up the Nofrisko entrance and stopping the chemical production had been regrettable but necessary, at least until the Dark Ascension Night arrived. After that, of course, he could restart the lab mixing the compound which the prey would unwittingly ingest. He nodded to himself: fear always made the meat taste so, so much sweeter… Meanwhile, however, this little Muppet was proving to be more of a nuisance than he'd first thought.

He frowned, deeply creasing a face which would have sent the Frackles outside into hysterical screaming fits. How could those idiots have _possibly_ mistaken anyone else for this ridiculous reporter? "Surely there aren't _two_ Muppets with that nose and that big mouth!" he growled. Angrily he switched the feed to the hidden camera inside the secret lab, and stared moodily at the humans examining, cataloguing, and treading softly in HAZMAT suits all over his formerly-delightful fear-producing equipment. With a growl, he hit the intercom button on his headset. "What has been done with the cat?" he asked.

After a moment, a timid voice came back, "H-he's still in a holding cell, Your Ickiness. We didn't know how you wanted us to serve him, boiled or grilled."

"Who is this?" the boss demanded.

A choked voice replied, "F-friggle Frackle, Your Scariness…"

"Well, Friggle Frackle, you may have an extra ration of rat today for being brave enough to speak to me." He smiled, imagining the little monster nearly wetting itself at being thus addressed. "And…bring the cat to me. I shall deal with him myself."

A pause, then the voice squeaked, "ThankyouyourAwfulness! Right away sir!"

The underlord chuckled. His pet gurbled at him, and he reached down to gently pull the giant centipede into his vast lap. "Soon, my little one," he murmured to it, enjoying its rumbling wriggle as he petted its mangy fur. "Soon, I will shed the last trappings of the flesh…and be just…like…you."

The monster growled its approval.


	30. Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. _In which Deadly is insulted; Gonzo finds inspiration; and Science comes to the rescue._

Mondays being the weekly "dark days" for the Muppet Theatre, nobody was around when the Newsman burst into the backstage entry and sprinted through the stage right wing to the basement stairs. "Hello?" he yelled as he ran, "Hello? Dr Honeydew? Beaker? Help!"

The commotion did attract attention: as Newsie fumbled for the lightswitch in the short tunnel below the stage, a scaly blue figure in a tattered evening jacket slunk around the green room balustrade, horns perked. "Good heavens, what's all the racket?" the dragon grumbled. "Can't a fellow enjoy some ominous silence once in a while?"

Newsie turned the doorknob to the Muppet Laboratory, calling as he went: "Beaker? Dr Honeydew? Are you home?" A mechanical arm swung out from the doorway, whisking a metal pail through the air just over the reporter's frazzled hair. "Agh!" Newsie ducked, staring up worriedly as the bucket tipped over, spilling a dark fluid onto the hall floor, then wobbled back through the doorway. _A booby trap? Since when have those guys been so guarded? Well, at least it didn't get me…_ "Uh…hello?"

No answer came, save for the quiet _bips_ and _brups_ of the lab equipment. Newsie peered inside cautiously, but nothing else sprang at him. The soft whirr of a reel-to-reel magnetic tape recorder suddenly running and then stopping startled him. "Where could they be?" he wondered.

"Like, dude, I'm gonna see what's to eat around here," Tommy spoke up from the end of the hall, shuffling back toward the canteen.

Frustrated, the Newsman stepped gingerly into the lab. Was there any way to preserve the gunk now dried on his fingertips? Spotting a rack of empty glass vials, he grabbed one and did his best to scrape some of the crystallized greenish stuff into it, plugged it with a rubber stopper, and laid it upon a worktable. The sounds of the lab equipment running on autopilot may have been normal – relatively – but they quickly unnerved him. Digging his notepad and pencil stub from a coat pocket, Newsie scribbled a note for the lab boys: _Need this analyzed! May be dangerous!_

Backing out of the lab with nervous glances all around, Newsie suddenly whirled: he could've sworn he saw movement in the dim corridor. "H-hello?" he called. Utter silence filled the space under the stage, from prop room to green room. "Tony? Is that you?"

A low chuckle sounded right behind him. The Newsman spun, only to be whacked in the forehead by the dangling bucket booby-trap. "Waaagh!" he cried, nearly stumbled over his own shoes, and hastily broke for the green room. Just before he reached it, the door slammed shut; his glasses crunched painfully against his nose when he couldn't stop in time. "Ow! Aaagh!" The lights in the corridor suddenly cut out. "Hey! No!" Newsie's shaking fingers reached for the switch, only to touch something cold as the grave. With a frightened yelp, he jerked back. A pair of glowing green eyes advanced toward him from the darkness. "Yaaahhgh!" Screaming, Newsie ran blindly for the opposite end of the hall, where another door led to a short flight of steps up to stage left. He bounced off either side of the hallway, fumbling for the way out. Low, menacing laughter filled the corridor behind him. _Monsters! Monsters! No!_ Gasping, Newsie bruised his shin on the lowest step and thumped his shoulder against the knob of the open exit door. With a whimper, he scrambled up the steps, emerging at last stage left by the dark flyrail.

A shifting of the air behind him, the softest flutter of sound, made him turn, cringing; a ghostly figure swooped up onto the loading rail. Uncle Deadly alighted there, leaning over the safety railing with arms spread wide, chortling deeply. Newsie stared up at him, eyes wide, and the dragon grinned. _"Boo! Mwah ha ha haaaa!"_

"You!" Newsie choked. "You – you're one of _them!"_ Though he felt almost too terrified to think, he yelled up at the spectre, "What have you done with my cousin?"

"What the devil are you blabbering on about?" Deadly asked, frowning.

"Snookie Blyer! You're keeping him with the other monsters!" Newsie dared a step toward the rail. "T-tell me where he is!"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," Deadly sniffed haughtily. "This now makes _twice_ you've accused me of some sort of kidnapping! You, sir, need a lesson in manners!"

"Monsters! You're a monster! You took that blind man to see Snookie! He had my cousin's autograph on his little clay bits!" Newsie shouted, but the dragon only frowned.

 _"Must_ I be pestered by insane big-mouths on my day _off?"_ Deadly growled. "I suppose _next_ you'll accuse me of pandering anti-oil propaganda! _Begone_ , foolish Muppet!"

With a chilling cry of gibberish, the phantom swooped down upon the Newsman, his rotting silk cape billowing behind him like a dead moth's wings. Newsie shrieked, flattening himself to the stage floor. Deadly landed a few feet away, and turned slowly, a wicked smile quirking his long jaws. "So, you fear monsters, do you? _I'll_ give you something to be afraid of! Mwooh ha ha ha _hah!"_

In the deserted canteen, the sloth tilted his head slowly at the ceiling. Faint screams and echoing laughter drifted through the boards. Tommy nodded. "He _did_ find someone home…cool." Unconcerned, he resumed rummaging through the muttering greenish things in the 'fridge.

"Did you get it?" Gonzo asked, standing up from his bunk.

"Yabba," Rosie McGurk nodded, reaching under his fur to produce a wallet-sized photograph. Before he could hand it through the bars, Gonzo slipped sideways between them to grasp the picture and gaze fervently at it.

"Ohhh…Camilla," he sighed. The photo was from their last trip to Coney Island. Camilla had enjoyed cotton candy on the boardwalk, and Gonzo had been smushed by a strongman at one of the test-your-strength games: a wonderful time all around. Gonzo swallowed down a lump in his skinny throat at the sight of his squashed body cuddling the chicken in the photo booth, on that sunny day a summer ago. "Thanks," he murmured at McGurk.

The monster blinked all three eyes in sympathy. "Garabba grelbem."

Gonzo leaned against the locked door of his cell, eyes misting as he gazed at the soft feathers, the cute little beak, the sexy red wattles… "Do you…do you think she's forgotten me, Rosie?"

"Agg! Nahhhg," McGurk assured him, shaking his head so vehemently tufts of feathers came loose. He hadn't grown back the acid-singed fur yet, so a borrowed caftan of bright scarlet fur made him look like a cardinal of monsters.

Gonzo gloomily slumped within his own colorful egg-print bathrobe. "I mean…no calls, no fan mail…we do get fan mail, don't we?" McGurk nodded in reply, pointing out a slushpile of unopened letters and postcards. A bored, buzzard-nosed blue Frackle was shoveling them into a metal trashcan in which a weak flame flickered, barely heating the underground jail. Gonzo stared at that dully, then sighed again. "I don't even know if she voted for me! Maybe…maybe all this has been for nothing."

"Nahbba!" McGurk insisted, and gestured broadly, reminding Gonzo of the crowd's acclaim, of the boss' favoritism, of all the perks the daredevil had earned due to his popularity. "Fah ibba, monstah rabba rabba, puzza!"

"Pizza isn't everything, Rosie," Gonzo said. "I mean, sure, finally finding my audience has been fantastic…but…I keep looking out into that surging crowd…all those drooling sharp teeth, all those bug-eyes, y'know, and wishing just once I'd see a cute little chickie-babe gazing up at me." He sighed a third time, even more deeply.

"Buh," McGurk murmured. Awkwardly he patted Gonzo's shoulder. "Grah Izznay, stupabba fah ga _rabba_ magga nah blah!"

"Yeah…Wednesday. I know." Gonzo shook his head. "My mind's a blank. It really kind of…just hit me today. I haven't even _seen_ her in weeks! And my phone's dead, and they confiscated yours, and none of my emails seem to be going through…" Rosie's eyes widened as Gonzo held up a clicking, ticking iCrab. Gonzo tapped the flat screen on its broad back and tweaked a claw, then turned the screen so McGurk could view it. "See?" The Frooglemail window blinked: _address not found error._ "Come on, what's up with that?" Rosie wondered how the heck Gonzo had even snuck such an instrument into his cell; all his personal effects had been confiscated after the incident with the big screen on the ' _Break a Leg!'_ set. "Could she really not…not want to talk to me anymore?"

"Muhba shagga buzzah?" Rosie offered.

"What could she be busy with? Or maybe it's _who_ she's getting busy with!" Unhappily, Gonzo contemplated the possibility Camilla had finally accepted Blackie's many not-so-subtle hints about nesting. After all, gorgeous though she was, the chicken wasn't getting any younger, and maybe the rooster's innuendo about eggs had… "Eggs," Gonzo muttered, suddenly noticing the all-over print on his robe. Brown, white, speckled… _"Eggs!_ Oh for crying out - Rosie, I am such a dunce!" He grabbed the bewildered monster's arms. "She kept clucking about eggs! A nest! She was trying to tell me – and I didn't even – and those chick-rearing magazines she suddenly subscribed to – Rosie! I get it! I _get it!_ Camilla wants to have an _egg!"_ He gulped, the full implication of that whomping him so hard he sat down on a slow-moving giant lobster-faced turtle-thing which had ambled over to roast a marshmallow at the mail-fire. Ignoring the creature's grumble, Gonzo turned astounded eyes to his friend. "She…she wanted to have an egg…with _me!"_

"Egga?" Rosie repeated, confused. "Wuh…fragga egga, froh habba-boila…"

"Hard-boiled? What are you, a _cannibal?!"_ Gonzo exclaimed, shocked. Quickly McGurk took a step back literally and figuratively, waving his hands in shameful apology. "No, you weirdo! She wants to have kids! She was trying to…trying to…" Gonzo had to take a deep breath, the strength abruptly drained from his body. "She was trying to tell me she wanted something more…and I didn't even listen. I was too caught up in myself, in my own dreams, to even think about hers…" He shook his head. "Oh, Camilla. Rosie, what have I done?"

Perplexed, the monster bit his upper lip, then gestured hesitantly at the pile of props the other monsters had thoughtfully donated to keep the betting pool afloat: chainsaws, flamethrowers, a ground-to-air missile launcher, a vase of pussywillow shoots, and one sparkly blue Super Rubber Bouncy Ball. "Uh…plagguh boomba?"

Gonzo dismissed him with a shake of his head. "No, I don't want to plan the next act! Don't you see, Rosie? Camilla…Camilla loves me…" He choked up. "Or…at least, she _did…_ what am I gonna do?"

The long tongue of the monster drooped in sympathy. At a loss, McGurk shook his head as well. The turtle-thing under Gonzo shifted and muttered, "Can you get _off_ so I can toast this before the fire goes out?"

Ignoring it, Gonzo suddenly leaned forward and clutched Rosie's sleeve. "I have to get out of here, Rosie! I have to go find her!"

Alarmed, McGurk shook his head violently. "Nabba! Nabba! Nooga fragga acka muhgagga ubbil ebba cohnfrah!"

"Well to be honest, I hadn't thought of it that way," Gonzo said, sinking back onto the crawling creature before it moved an inch toward the trash-barrel fire. It groaned and flailed its stubby legs in vain. "You mean I can't leave until the contest is over? What happens if I just split out?"

"Agrahgga fubba _waahhhh!"_ McGurk yelled, throwing his arms in the air. A piece of pink feather drifted slowly down from the scraggly tuft on his head as he stood there; both of them watched it hit the floor.

Gonzo turned a frown to his friend. "Well, _that_ doesn't sound good."

"Nugga," McGurk agreed, worried.

"So…soon as I win this thing, I can get out of here, and maybe convince Camilla I'm ready to…to…" he swallowed hard. "To, uh, at least talk about this whole egg thing?"

"Uhhh…shabba," Rosie lied, wincing.

"Well…it sounds kinda unfair. Are you _sure_ the contract said that? I don't remember any imprisonment clause."

 _"Unfair_ is being stuck under a naked weirdo in a bathrobe," the lobster-faced thing muttered, thumping its short tail in annoyance.

"Gagga rubba gawgrack," McGurk assured Gonzo seriously.

"Fine, okay, whatever," Gonzo grumbled. He looked, unenthused, at the pile of balls, props, and implements of destruction next to the cell. "What was the requirement this time? Shovels and rakes?"

"Shavah, rakkah," Rosie agreed. He picked a promising-looking double-bladed coal rake from the stack and showed it to the daredevil. "Tah daaaagga!"

"Eh…boring." Lost in contemplation, Gonzo ignored McGurk hopefully producing construction and yardwork tool after tool from the pile, as well as the still-struggling thing beneath him. "Hey…what if…Rosie!" He shot to his feet, grabbing a startled McGurk. "I've got it!"

"Finally…" the turtle-thing groaned, starting a slow crawl toward the dying fire.

"Let's do an act…with _eggs!"_ Rosie stared at him, speechless. Excited, Gonzo looked around, grabbing a hook-pronged Frackle rake and a sharply pointed garbage shovel. "Yes! That's it! Rosie – we'll balance five and a half dozen _eggs_ on these tools! We'll juggle them, and balance them, and do it all while walking on extremely painful sizzling coals!"

"Wuhgga?" McGurk gulped.

"Yes, _we!_ I'll need your help for this! Okay, first, get me some eggs! As many as you can! I don't care – _any_ kind! We need to practice!" As McGurk stood there, stunned, an ebullient Whatever spun the rake in one hand and the shovel in the other, whacking the forelegs off the turtle-thing by accident.

The creature glared at its limbs wriggling around trying to find their way back home, then at the unreachable fire. "Oh come _on!"_

"Rosie, _we_ are going to put on the best darned rake-and-shovel-egg-protecting act _ever_ committed to film - outside of that incident at the Easter basket plant in Patterson last year, anyway. If Camilla's still watching me, she'll see I finally understand! She'll see how gentle and protective and – and – fatherly I can be! This is _wonderful!"_ He grinned at the frozen McGurk. "Well don't just stand there! Let's get cracking! Er…wait. Bad expression. Get me those eggs!" He shoved McGurk toward the cell-block exit, whirling around to start tossing items out of the prop pile in search of just the right equipment, so he didn't see his assistant trip over one of the clawing, clutching forepaws on the floor.

"Waauugh!" Rosie cried, desperately trying to shake the grabbing claw free of his nose.

"Gimme that! Paw-thief! Paw-thief!" the turtle-thing shouted, bumping clumsily against McGurk's feet. With a strangled cry, Rosie stumbled down the rocky corridor. The turtle-thing reattached its other forepaw and began limping after McGurk, still yelling. Gonzo's attention was focused on the pile of stuff: shovels, rakes, and implements of construction flew through the cramped corridor.

With an annoyed sigh, the buzzard-nosed Frackle tamped down the last of the fan mail. He noticed the dropped marshmallow-on-a-stick on the floor nearby, and picked it up. Weird as this assignment could be, it did sometimes have its perks. Shortly, the crackle and hiss of a toasting bit of fluff added its small sound to the cacophony ringing through the cell block.

Beaker trudged behind Bunsen as the two made their way through the theatre. Bunsen chatted cheerfully: "I thought the test of the spider-enraging spray went very well, don't you? And tomorrow we'll put down the motion-activated ghoul-droppers!"

"Meep," Beaker muttered glumly. His hair was covered in dirty cobwebs, and the back of his lab coat was shredded, with one broken fang still embedded in it. He thought he saw some slight movement out of the corner of one eye, and whirled. Something reddish and yellowish was sticking out from behind the edge of a rope-holding crate in the stage right wing. Beaker grabbed Bunsen's sleeve, tugging hard to get his colleague's attention. "Mee meep!"

"Yes, yes, I already _said_ we could order a pizza," Bunsen said, turning, then realized Beaker was frantically pointing at something in the shadows of the unlit wing. "What is it? Oh! Did you find that mutant hamsterburger we re-animated that got loose last week?"

"Muh-uh," Beaker corrected, pointing again at the mostly-hidden thing crouched behind the crate. "Meep!"

"My goodness, what have we here?" Bunsen wondered, trotting right over to the crate despite Beaker's tremulous warnings. He leaned over for a closer look. Beaker cringed. Something yellow and red and waving crazed arms shot up from behind the crate. "Oh my!"

 _"Get back! Shoo! Shoo! Leave me alone! You'll never take me alive! Aaaaaaaa!"_

The lab duo stared in surprise as a disheveled, wide-eyed Newsman bolted across the stage, crashing into the flyrail; knocked loose, one of the levers dropped, and suddenly a row of black curtains billowed down, piling in thick ribbons until the batten holding them reached the end of its lines and bounced about two feet above the stage floor, twanging loudly. Honeydew walked calmly around the piles of curtains to the stunned Newsman laying on the floor. "Newsman? Whatever is the matter?"

Newsie blinked up at him, glasses knocked off, then suddenly screamed again and scrambled to his feet. "No! _No!_ You won't eat me! I won't let you eat me! Waaaggh!"

"Beaker, stop him!" Bunsen called. When the terrified reporter ran by the low-dangling batten, Beaker shoved it hard; it smacked Newsie's side, and over he toppled with a stifled groan. Bunsen hurried up, producing a syringe from a coat pocket. Beaker didn't have time to wonder why Bunsen even carried something like that before the scientist jabbed it into the back of Newsie's neck and depressed the plunger; a rubber mallet popped out of the middle of the syringe and whacked Newsie atop his skull. The frightened Muppet slumped unconscious. Bunsen, relieved, put away the gadget, smiling at a flabbergasted Beaker. "A little project I've been working on, for people who need their vaccinations but simply can't _stand_ needles!"

"Mee mo," Beaker mumbled, shaking his head.

"Help me get him to the lab, and we'll find out what's gotten into the poor Muppet," Bunsen said. Together they carried Newsie to the freight elevator and went downstairs.

When Newsie came to, his head ached, his side felt sore, and a woozy feeling enveloped him all over. "Wha…what hit me?" He didn't recall the News Flash, but a lifetime of such experiences made that the most likely culprit.

Dr Honeydew beamed at him. "Oh, good! Feeling any better?"

"Define 'better,'" Newsie grumbled, tentatively touching the crown of his skull. A raised welt under his hair made him wince.

"Mee meep me," Beaker said, offering Newsie his glasses. He put them on very slowly, assessing what exactly hurt where.

"I…I was…hey!" He stared at Bunsen. "The dragon! He was trying to kill me!"

"Meee!" Beaker gasped, but Honeydew shook his head.

"No one else is here today, Newsman. Except for that sloth fellow sleeping on the lighting rail on the balcony… We've analyzed the crystalline substance you brought us, and since you seemed to have been badly exposed to it, I took the liberty of creating an antidote and, er, administering it to you."

Well, that explained the sore spot on his rear, anyway. Grimacing, Newsie tried to recall everything. "Right, the stuff from the Nofrisko basement…exposed? So…so it _was_ dangerous!"

"Well, 'dangerous' might be a bit of an exaggeration," Honeydew said thoughtfully. He backed off a step so Newsie could groggily stand up from the padded bench he'd been laying on. Pointing to a computer screen which showed some kind of complicated chemical diagram, Bunsen continued, "You see, the ingredients, though unusual, actually form a fairly simple compound which, when ingested – or absorbed through the felt, as happened to you, Newsman – causes an _extreme_ reaction in the hippocampus, provoking an intense flight reaction! Since you were unfortunately _infused_ with the stuff, you experienced an overwhelming negative provocation which shorted out your higher reasoning faculties!"

"Come again?" Newsie asked, peering around the lab in confusion. Compact florescent tubes lit everything brightly, revealing the jumble and clutter of equipment which was at least normal for Muppet Labs…and yet he seemed to remember being terrified of this room for some reason…

"Mee mee meep me, mee mee mee, meeeee!" Beaker explained, waving his arms at the end. Newsie stared at him a second, then turned back to Honeydew.

Patiently, the scientist rephrased. "The stuff made you so terrified you couldn't think straight."

"Oh." Newsie frowned. "But – but there _is_ good reason to be afraid, Dr Honeydew! I know I didn't imagine that phantom attacking me! That only proves my suspicion that he's part of the evil crew behind all the disappearances – and he _must_ know where the Ars Moribunda Studios are!"

"Meep?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bunsen said crossly. "We didn't see any phantoms, did we, Beakie?"

"Muuuhhh…" Beaker mumbled, thinking of the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre. Surely Bunsen hadn't forgotten how angry the spectre still was with them for inventing a ghostbusting raygun? He tapped his lab partner's shoulder. "Me mee meep mee meep me!"

"Oh, _that_ phantom!" Bunsen frowned. "How is _he_ connected to the substance we tested? By the way, Newsman, that formula was in the same one you brought me earlier; you said it was for a snack cake? Except what you had on your fingers was in a _vastly_ higher concentration than its usage in that first recipe. Hmm…I surmise you found the main cache of the monsterphobia-inducing additive!"

"Monsterphobia…" Newsie, startled, perked up. "So…so I _wasn't_ being attacked?"

"Well, certainly not by us!" Honeydew chuckled. "Perhaps that nice Mr Deadly just wanted to talk to you, and in your deranged state, you perceived him as a threat!"

"Muh- _uhh,"_ Beaker disagreed. He knew better than to get on that dragon's bad side again!

Newsie considered this, trying to think past the ache in his brain. "Since you already suffer from that psychological ailment, the effect was doubled, perhaps _tripled_ on your delicate psyche!" Honeydew offered. "We're going to run some more tests on the sample you gave us."

"But why would a company in _league_ with monsters want to make anyone _afraid_ of them?" Newsie wondered again.

Honeydew shrugged. "Well, I have heard that some monsters _prefer_ the taste of the adrenaline rush which accompanies extreme fear in sentient creatures. Mr Doglion and I had a most _fascinating_ conversation about that oh, wasn't it last year, Beakie, when he asked if we could formulate a diet food which still tasted scared? He wanted to slim down his hips for bathing-suit season," he explained to Newsie.

"They – they _want_ us scared of them?" Newsie gulped. This was even more dastardly than he'd imagined!

Honeydew turned back to his computer, twiddling with the equation on the screen. "Well, you'd have to ask them! I myself prefer my food immobile and a little on the spicy side, tsst tsst!" He smiled. "Speaking of…Beaker, why don't you order us that jalapeño and Koozebanian bacon pizza?" As Beaker agreed and picked up the phone, Bunsen invited Newsie, "Are you hungry, Newsman? You're welcome to join us…although we'd appreciate the donation of a few dollars in that case."

"No…no thank you," Newsie muttered, trying to reorient himself. Although he knew the theatre like the back of his glasses, he still felt uneasy and out-of-sorts, and _more_ questions swirled through his brain, it seemed, with each new piece of information. "I…I need to find that dragon. Need to find out what he really knows."

"Are you sure talking to a ghost so soon is a wise choice?" Bunsen asked. "You may still have a flashback or two from that overdose of _omniamonstruophobiitis."_

"I need answers," Newsie snapped. "I have to find my cousin, before something awful happens to him! I just hope…" Leaving the terrible thought unfinished, Newsie walked unsteadily from the lab up toward the stage level.

"Mee," Beaker sighed, watching the grimly determined reporter leave.

"Well put," Bunsen agreed. He stared at the empty doorway a long moment, then suddenly perked. "Beaker! We could _help_ him!"

"Mee?" Confronting a notoriously touchy ghost didn't sound like a good idea to Beaker.

"No, no. Look! We have here the antidote formula, you see? What if we condensed that into a daily supplemental tablet which monsterphobia sufferers such as the Newsman could ingest as a counterweight to their natural disorder? Think of it! Muppet Labs Anti-Monsterphobia Pills!"

"Meep meep," Beaker said, considering it. He nodded. Wasn't 'better living through science' what they were all about, anyway?

Bunsen clapped his fellow scientist on the shoulder. "Wouldn't it be nice to do something for him, especially considering the _terrible_ toll his work surely takes on him? Ah, the poor Muppet. I really feel for him sometimes, Beakie. After all, can you _imagine_ experiencing pain, humiliation, and regular squashing _every day_ just for doing your job?"

Beaker did a double-take, staring at Bunsen. Cheerful again, Bunsen rolled up the sleeves of his lab coat. "Come on, Beakie! Let's get to work! The pizza can wait – we're on a mission for Science!"

Newsie squinted up into the high rafters of the theatre grid, seeing nothing but endless lines of strong metal cables holding aloft the various curtains, rows of lights, and other scenery regularly used in the show. "Deadly?" he called, realized he sounded like a strangled frog, and cleared his throat nervously. "Ahem…uh…Uncle Deadly?"

The stage remained silent as the grave. "Uh…look…I need to talk to you! Horrible plots are afoot, and you seem to know where the base of monster operations is! I have to find it!" Silence. Newsie walked slowly around the stage, his eyes searching the wings, the flyrail, the lighting bays out front all in vain hope of seeing a flash of dark blue scales or the glitter of unearthly eyes. "Monsters are planning something awful, something big, and it involves a television network called MMN! They film somewhere under the city, I think… Look, I know you've been there! That visitor had my cousin's autograph, and he said it was underground, the studio where you took him to see a show, and my cousin was there, and…" Realizing he sounded confused and possibly ridiculous, Newsie stopped.

Why would the spectre help him, anyway? Even undead, he was still definitely a monster…and Newsie was sure, despite his flurried memory of the past few hours, that Deadly _had_ come after him, and not to exchange opinions on the weather! Trying one last time, he yelled, "I know you can hear me! Truce, okay? I need to talk to you! Please!"

He waited. Nothing at all happened. Sighing, he turned toward the exit. Movement off to his side made him jump and flinch.

"Whoa, dude," Tommy mumbled, slowly raising empty paws. "Like, did you want the footage from today? I gotta get home. My favorite show is on in three hours."

Newsie glared at him. "Stop sneaking up on me! Yes, give me the footage. I'll take it back to Rhonda." He hadn't even thought about the rat since he arrived at the theatre. Feeling guilty, he held out his hand and the sloth deposited the memory card from the camera into his palm. "Go home, get some rest. We may need you again tomorrow."

"You're paying for lunch then," the sloth informed him, and loped off slowly.

Newsie curled his fingers around the precious card, sighing. He glanced once more into the darkened flyloft. Nothing stirred. "With or without your help, I _will_ figure this out and find my cousin," he growled, and headed out the front lobby to hail a cab.

Dangling nearly invisible from one of the masking curtain pipes, Deadly mused in solitude again. _A plot? Monsters? Television? The poor chap's lost his tiny little mind. One too many things flattening his skull, no doubt._ Still…Deadly _had_ noticed a vast number of monsters belowground at that show taping; more, in fact, than he could recall ever seeing in one place before. He'd thought it a delightful display of solidarity at the time… _What are they doing down there, indeed? Since when are the furred fearsome more interested in producing silly game shows than in chasing Whatnots through the park at night?_ Frowning, Deadly shifted his grip on the batten, his sharp memory bringing up images of monsters filling an audience, of monsters hurrying through back corridors as though they all worked there…and since when did monsters actually band together for a _job_ which didn't seem to directly involve eating someone within seconds?

"Very well," he muttered, dropping lightly from the batten to land soundlessly on the stage floor. "Now I _am_ a bit curious." He tapped a claw against his snout. "Perhaps I ought to pay another visit to my old school chum Pew." Of course the silly reporter was simply voicing his own paranoia…but what if there was some sort of monstrous convention going on, and they'd neglected to invite the scariest spook of them all? Deadly snorted. "Oh, they'd _better_ not have! And I shan't hear any more excuses about invitations being lost in the mail, like last time for that goblin-pull and quilting bee!" With a grim nod, he skulked off to the nearest rain gutter, wishing those uncultured heathens would install a lightrail system to the underrealm. Didn't he pay his spook tax every year – and for what, a sewer system with no motorized transport? "Honestly," he growled as his feet splashed into the muck on the tunnel floor. "I shouldn't have to ruin a perfectly rotten pair of slippers every time I wish to go say hello!"

His mood dropping, Deadly tromped downward.


	31. Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. _In which Team News plans ahead. Also, snuggling._

Gina and Rhonda both stared at the Newsman when he trudged through the door to the apartment. Gina reacted faster, vaulting across the room to grab him by the shoulders in two seconds flat. "Sweetie! What happened? I was just about to start calling around!"

"Ow," he replied.

Gina dropped to a crouch, examining him; he couldn't meet her gaze, embarrassed at the damage he'd done to himself in his panic at the theatre. "Oh no. The snack company -?"

"Er…no. Long story," Newsie sighed. "Could we…just, uh, settle in? It's been a really long day."

Concerned, Gina stroked his cheek, then kissed him. "For the moment, all right. But you owe me an explanation, cutie. When Rhonda told me she'd expected you back hours ago…"

"Didja get anything good?" the rat piped up from her cocoon of a soft throw blanket on the sofa. She started to lean forward, then winced.

 _"_ _You_ can sit still, and keep pressing that poultice on your burn," Gina informed her. Rhonda grumbled under her breath about bossy women. Turning back to Newsie, Gina enfolded him in a gentle hug; sighing, he returned it, careful not to stretch his injured ribcage too far. "Why don't you wash up and get into your PJs, and I'll order out, okay?"

"Sounds good," Newsie mumbled, then noticed Gina had streaks of grease on her clothing and sawdust in her hair. She must have arrived home only a short while ago. "Um…join me?"

"Yeesh," Rhonda muttered. "Showering together. Didn't need that image."

Newsie walked to the sofa and deposited the videocamera memory card next to the rat. "I don't know how much is worth showing. There's more going on, Rhonda. A lot more! I'm sure of it now. And I _have_ to find a way into that underground studio…"

"I did _not_ just hear you say that," Gina growled.

Newsie stood, head down, a long moment, then looked up at her in solemn resignation. "I'll take Sweetums along."

She touched his forehead. "Huh. You _feel_ normal."

He frowned at her. "Normal. According to the lab guys, I have a 'delicate psyche.'"

Gina stared at him, unsure how to react to that. Rhonda snickered. "Coulda told ya that months ago."

"You've seen the evidence; you've seen the footage of that – that _thing_ underground!" Newsie said to Gina, ignoring his producer. "Please tell me you don't think my – my justified suspicion of monsters is leading me to jump to wrong conclusions now! I'm not crazy, and I'm not making a mountain out of a molehill!"

"Newsie, I believe you, and…" she paused, frowning. "Actually, no, I _haven't_ seen the thing you two ran into yesterday yet." When she'd brought Newsie back from the hospital last night, all she'd been able to get out of him was that they'd encountered some sort of toxic creature in a secret tunnel, and that the authorities would be investigating today. "Maybe I should. Rhonda?"

"Uh…it's kind of raw; the camera was really wobbly while we were running, and, um –"

"As if you haven't been sitting here all day editing," Gina argued. "Come on, let me see it."

With a shrug, Rhonda keyed up the film she'd finished; though not as visceral as the original footage, it still showed plenty of unpleasantness. She'd put a blackout mask over her face during the slug part, although she was positive the news of her misadventure had already spread throughout the rodent community. As Gina turned the laptop around so she could view it, Rhonda muttered at Newsie, "Nice working with ya, Goldie."

Gina watched the film in grim silence: Newsie venturing into the old Prohibition tunnel, finding the slime on the walls, and then the sound of the clattering bug-things accompanying a panicked run for the exit. When she saw Rhonda screaming on the tongue of the giant slug, Gina sucked in a breath and held it, frozen, through her desperate rescue. The time-edited film concluded with an ominous-seeming photo of the Nofrisko building they'd shot before venturing inside. "I, uh, was hoping he could get us something to add to that after the raid today," Rhonda said.

Gina swallowed hard, and gently touched Rhonda's paw. "I knew it was bad. I didn't know just _how_ horrible. I am so, so glad you're all right."

"Eh…I wouldn't say _all_ right, but it'll grow back," Rhonda said, shifting uncomfortably under the plush blanket she'd gathered around herself like a spa robe; it was a great deal less humiliating than the rabbit-fur coat.

Gina pulled Newsie into her arms again; he welcomed the affection, and impulsively nuzzled his nose against her stomach. "And _you…_ you are a very brave Muppet, my love." Sighing, Newsie closed his eyes, holding her close as she stroked his hair. He winced when her fingers found the bruise. "Sorry! But…" She took a deep breath. "No _way_ are you going back down there! Didn't the cops go after these…things?"

"The entrance was sealed up when they arrived," he explained. "They say they'll get to it _next week._ There's more, though…" Feeling deeply weary, he met her gaze. "Um, can we just get cleaned up and relax a while first? I just…I really need…"

Gina melted at the sight of his eyes looking even more tired and strained than usual. "I love you," she murmured, leaning over to kiss his nose. "All right. But this gets discussed before bed. I do _not_ want to have to go to work tomorrow worrying about what awful things you might run into in this quest for truth!"

Newsie nodded, wrapping one arm around her, and Gina gently led him down the hall. "Hey, Rhonda?" she called over her shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you turn on some music?"

"Why don't I turn something on _loud,"_ Rhonda growled, but picked up the remote to the TV and clicked through channels until she found an action film with explosive car chases. "Geez," she said as she kept her ears tuned to _that_ noise instead of any softer ones coming from the other rooms, "some things aren't meant to be known! Bigfoot's location, who really killed Kennedy, and what certain Muppets do in their private time!"

Some time later (too _much_ time later, in one disgruntled and hungry rat's opinion), the couple emerged in the living room again, appearing damp and clean and, in Newsie's case, a little _too_ happily weary, but at least clothed in warm pajamas and slippers. Rhonda quietly closed her laptop, casting a searching eye at Newsie; if he'd been exposed to something in the hidden lab, as she'd just seen on the sloth's footage from today, he seemed to be holding up well. Gina took their preferences for sandwiches; while she was on the phone to the deli placing a delivery order, Rhonda beckoned Newsie over. "So, uh…are you feeling okay?" she asked.

"Wonderful," he replied, blushing as he stole a happy glance back at his beloved.

"That's _not_ what I meant! Sheesh…I mean I saw ya dip your fingers in some kinda gook at that lab. Any side effects?"

"Oh, um. Er. Well…not anymore…"

"Can the great journalist give me some actual _words_ on the subject?"

"They said it'll be here in fifteen minutes," Gina announced, dragging a large floor pillow over to the coffee table and settling crosslegged on it. She looked from an annoyed rat to a guilty Muppet. "Okay…what's going on?"

"Yes, Newsie, what _is_ going on?" Rhonda seconded, folding her arms over her chest, then wincing and holding her breath a moment in pain. "Gotta remember not to do that…"

"Er…uh…" Seeing expectant expressions on both the girls' faces, Newsie sank down in the corner of the sofa opposite Rhonda. "Well, um…apparently…Nofrisko has been making a chemical that makes anyone who is, er, exposed to it, terrified of monsters…and apparently the monsters _like_ that."

"So were you exposed?" Rhonda asked. Gina, startled, shot Newsie a worried look.

"Sweetie!"

"I _was,_ but I'm fine now," he hurriedly assured her. "Dr Honeydew came up with the antidote."

"So where were you all day?" Gina asked, visions of her Muppet scared out of his mind running amok through lower Manhattan taunting her.

"At the theatre. I went straight there after the Nofrisko raid, looking for the Muppet Labs guys, but they weren't home…so I, uh, just waited for them." The blush on his cheeks told Gina there was more to it, but she only frowned and let it slide for now. "Er. I'm fine. But…but I really need to find another way into those tunnels! I remembered what it was I forgot," he told Gina.

"Good…" She wasn't sure it _was_ good, judging by his worried face. "What was it?"

"Uncle Deadly knows where my cousin is. It's somewhere underground – I think at the studios where MMN tapes all of its shows! Same place that phone call came from!" He turned to Rhonda. "I _told_ you it was all connected!"

"Wait, wait, wait," Gina sighed before Rhonda could speak up. "Newsie…you're saying your cousin is in a TV studio run by monsters, which is somewhere underground, where we now know there are horrible slobbering bugmonsters –"

"Yes! Exactly!"

"—And how does someone impersonating you, or anyone wanting to hurt your Aunt Ethel, fit in to all this?"

"I don't know yet. But that's all the more reason why I _need_ to find another way in!"

"You," Rhonda growled at him, "are an _idiot._ Want me to say it again? Will it sink in at some point?"

Forestalling a retort by Newsie, Gina held up her hands. "My love, you aren't an idiot. However…this has gone _way_ out of control. Please do _not_ go down there again! Let the cops do their job, even if it takes them longer than you'd like."

"But – but – _you_ said I should pursue the story! You said I was the only one who'd do it and so I should!" Newsie protested.

"I know. I know I did." She shook her head. "That was before your friend got burned, and now that I've seen what did that…sweetie, it's just too dangerous."

They sat in silence a long while. Trying to comfort him, Gina reached across the table to run her fingers through Newsie's hair, but he only gave her a deeply unhappy stare. "Look…maybe there's some other way to find out where this TV studio is, and you can tell the cops you believe your cousin is being held there against his will, and they'll –"

"How? How am I going to figure that out?" He shook his head angrily.

"You could use a frequency-strength locator to hone in on the broadcast signal," Rhonda said. Seeing their quizzical expressions, she explained, "They have to have a tower to send out the signal, and typically that'll be right on top of the actual broadcast station." She cocked her head in disbelief at Newsie. "Honestly. Haven't you ever been up on the roof at _our_ station? That transmitter is a huge pain in the _tuchis!_ Remember last summer when a big storm knocked out the transponders and –"

"I'm a reporter, not a technician!" Newsie snapped, but he gave the matter some thought. "How can we find their signal?"

"Newsie, no," Gina sighed.

"Gadget's easy to get, but you have to be able to tune it properly to pinpoint the signal. Most stations do a satellite bounce, and that can confuse the readings on the older instruments. Find the signal, find the tower, follow the cables down," Rhonda said, shrugging. "Maybe _way_ down, in this case."

"Find the studio…find Chester…figure out what the monsters are up to," Newsie muttered, nodding to himself.

Gina took his hands in hers and half-dragged him over the table. "Ulp," he gulped aloud, staring startled into the very cool grey eyes of his love.

"Aloysius Ambrosius Crimp, don't you dare," Gina said in a low and dangerous voice. He didn't know how to respond. Or _if_ he should respond.

Rhonda cut into the tension. "So! Anyone wanna share some of my curry fries?"

The doorbell sounded. With another glare at Newsie, Gina rose to buzz the deliveryperson in downstairs, and opened the apartment door to await their food. Rhonda hissed at Newsie, "Lemme guess. She only uses your whole name when she's really, _really_ mad?"

"I don't understand," he whispered back, brow furrowed. "Just a few days ago she told me I _should_ chase this story!"

"She _loves_ you, you foambrain," Rhonda snapped. "She doesn't want ya killed!"

"I…I won't be," Newsie replied, trying to summon up more courage than he actually felt at the moment.

Gina shut the door as the harried-looking purple Whatnot in the deli's uniform left, and plunked bags of food onto the coffee table. Wordlessly she doled out Newsie's pastrami and grilled onions on pumpernickle with mustard potato salad and Rhonda's sandwich _au jus_ and fries before unwrapping her own applewood-smoked turkey with cranberries on honey wheat. Condiments and pumpkin beer were passed around in silence. Rhonda, shrugging, started in on her sandwich, knowing better than to get into an argument between lovers. Newsie couldn't take the silent treatment long; he reached over to clasp Gina's hand in his own, and when she looked at him, he said solemnly, "I won't put myself in any danger, I promise. I'll…I'll find out where MMN broadcasts from, and if it can be accessed from the surface. I'll check out those stories about the subway tunnels. Maybe there's a safer way into the monster lair through there…and I'll take Sweetums and – and Rizzo with me."

Rhonda coughed, nearly choking on a fry.

Gina sighed, and looked askance at Newsie. "What makes you think those two will agree to work together?"

"I'll…I'll appeal to their sense of fair play and civic duty."

Rhonda chortled. "Rizzo can't even _spell_ 'duty', and he thinks 'civic' is a car!"

"I'll need someone familiar with underground spaces," Newsie argued. "And someone small enough to scout ahead unseen!"

"Forget Rizzo," Rhonda sighed, knocking back a long gulp of her beer through a straw. "When were you planning on this subway expedition?"

"T-tomorrow?" Newsie ventured, glancing nervously at Gina.

She shook her head. _"Only_ if Sweetums agrees."

"Find me better clothes, and I'll go with ya," Rhonda said.

Newsie stared at her; she scowled, recognizing the tremble in his upper lip. "You hug me, I'll bite you."

"Rhonda, I don't think you're healed enough to go tromping around in the subways," Gina argued. "I appreciate your loyalty to Newsie, I really do, but –"

"Sister, who said anything about loyalty?" Rhonda sniffed. "Those creeps took my _fur_ off! They tried to _eat_ me! This is _personal_ now!"

"What kind of clothes?" Newsie asked, casting about for his notepad.

Gina shook her head. "This is ridiculous. And about as smart as one of Gonzo's stunts!"

"Hey, where _is_ that weirdo, anyway?" Rhonda wondered. "He's been outta the picture for weeks now…"

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Newsie asked her, finding his pad and pencil finally.

"Goldie, she's right about the ridiculous, dangerous, and stupid part," Rhonda admitted, "but _no one_ does that to me, got it? No one! Not even nasty big ugly…horrible…bug-things…" she trailed off, shivering.

"Are you sure your cousin is at this TV studio?" Gina asked, trying a different tack to persuade her Muppet he was being dangerously foolish.

Struck by a thought, Newsie grabbed the TV remote, turned the set back on, and flipped through the listings until he found MMN. Clicking on it, he stared at the game show underway onscreen…and then blinked…and then yelled, _"Chester!"_

All three of them paused, food or drink or pencil frozen in hand, and stared at the pigs squabbling over something behind a long counter, the other group of pigs and what looked weirdly like a Muppet girl costumed badly as a pig on the other side of the set, and the yellow-felted Muppet in a loud plaid jacket waiting for the first group's response. Behind and above them, a game board had words scrawled on cardboard pieces: _COLLARD GREENS. MOLASSES. BEANS._

"Well, Carne-Asadas, what's your answer? Remember, if you're wrong, the board goes to the other team and if _they_ guess right, they'll get all _your_ points too!" the host urged.

"That's Chester!" Newsie gasped. "Snookie! That's my cousin!"

Gina recognized the face from the photos Newsie had shown her in his aunt's photo album. Rhonda managed to choke around her mouthful of roast beef: "Oh my gawd they _dress_ the same!"

"See? See? I knew it! He's down there! This show is produced by Ars Moribunda, and they're below the city somewhere! Somewhere…" He fell silent, stunned, watching his cousin walk through the paces of his host duties. The sleek-haired Muppet appeared pale of felt, sad of eye, and the way his shoulders drooped plainly showed his lack of enthusiasm for his job. "He must be miserable," Newsie said softly.

"He ain't no Guy Smiley," Rhonda agreed. "That is the most _sarcastic_ host I've seen since Jon Stewart interviewed Dick Cheney."

Snookie Blyer seemed indeed dismissive of the pigs' fate, as first one, then another porker was sent to a large barbeque grill visible just off the main set in cutaway shots. Gina shuddered. "Ew. He doesn't care if that…rabbity thing…eats them all?"

Uneasily, Newsie offered, "Maybe he's used to seeing it."

"Probably thinks better them than _him,"_ Rhonda said. She pointed at the screen. "There, didja see how the monster with the cheesy rabbit ears just looked at that Snookie guy? Believe you me, I know a drooling, greedy, disturbingly _hungry_ look when I see one!"

"Yeeugh," Newsie choked, glancing at his sandwich.

"Oh, please. After the way that rent-a-cop roughed you up at the station, you should have no problem eating steak," Rhonda grumbled at him. "Monsters eating Muppets is another thing entirely!"

"Just once, I'd like to be able to eat something without thinking about what _it_ thinks," Gina complained. "Even a veggie tray snapped at me once!"

"Don't ever eat at the Muppet Theatre canteen," Rhonda advised her.

"My cousin, you two! My _cousin!"_ Newsie cried, pointing at the screen, where a barely-smiling Snookie was waving a curt goodbye at the camera as the end credits rolled; in the background, the large furry horned thing which was definitely _not_ a bunny and another enormous furry monster were swallowing glazed BBQ pigs so fast the sauce was dribbling all down their protruding bellies. "This is proof! I _have_ to find him, I _have_ to get down there somehow!"

Agitated, he began to pace; Gina caught him and hugged him, and after a second he gave in, holding fast to her shoulders. "Newsie…okay. Okay. But please, _please_ promise me you'll stay clear of any monsters!" She glared at Rhonda. "Both of you!"

"No way am I getting near the nasty things again," Rhonda agreed. "I was thinking more along the lines of throwing grenades."

"If you find anything, you do _not_ go in without me," Gina insisted, staring into Newsie's eyes. He swallowed back a protest, and nodded.

"I wonder if Rocco knows any arms dealers," Rhonda mused.

"What…what happens then?" Newsie asked, his voice gruff but quiet.

Gina shrugged. "Then, I guess, we alert the cops. And if they won't get involved…well…then we'll figure something out ourselves."

Newsie had no idea what they could do against an underground army of monsters, especially if they had more bugs. However, he nodded, and submitted to a long embrace, his cheek pressed against Gina's, his nose filled with the softly spiced scent lingering on her skin after the shower. Breathing deeply, he tried to tell himself things would be all right, that he'd be able to find his cousin and rescue him somehow, he'd find out what the monsters had planned and expose them to the world, and it all would work out fine…somehow. Gina released him gently, giving him a faint smile as she stroked his nose, letting him know she still supported him. His tension dropped, and he kissed her; how lucky he was, to have such a woman on his side! She loved him, she worried about his safety, she volunteered to help if things became scary again -

"Do you have enough left in savings to buy a rocket launcher, ya think?" Rhonda asked. Gina and Newsie stared at her. She shrugged. "Just sayin'. Uh…how soon can you get me those clothes? Not that I'm ungrateful for the sleepover, really, but I wasn't planning on walking around your place naked, and since my brothers seem to have forgotten their nearest relation's simple _request_ … A girl's gotta have _some_ self-respect!"

Newsie looked at Gina. She sighed. "Finish your dinner first. I think the TinyLand Doll Shop is open until eight…"

After saying their goodnights to Rhonda, leaving the little rat opening package after plastic-cardboard package and grumbling about Mattel labels not being the sort of designer signature she'd hoped for, Newsie and Gina closed the door to their bedroom. Gina sank onto the low bed, pulling off the jeans and Henley shirt she'd grudgingly donned to go shopping. Her pajamas lay atop the comforter, but she ignored them, crawling under the warm blankets.

Newsie debated removing all his clothing. "Uh…we do have, um, company…"

"The walls are thick, the door's closed, and anyway she's occupied with deciding what to wear on a subway fishing trip," Gina pointed out. "Get in here."

Unsure about the wisdom of disrobing with a guest in the apartment, Newsie only removed the sweats he'd thrown on over his all-over-pumpkin-print pajamas and climbed in next to her. He reached up to switch off the bedside lamp, turned to settle under the covers, and suddenly found himself pinned by a lithe, strong young woman. "Erk! Geez…"

She silenced him with a deep kiss; shortly he was too involved in that to remember that she'd just startled him. Her fingers slipping beneath his pajama shirt and the way she positioned herself over his shorter body made him quickly forget all about the issue of another person in the apartment. Gina broke away finally, leaving him panting softly, gazing up at her in amazement; his pleasure, however, changed to concern when the dim illumination of his nightlight caught the gleam of moisture in her eyes. "Gina?"

"I will _not_ be put through that again," she hissed at him. _"Twice_ this year already I have had to deal with you in danger – almost killed! – and now I find out you d—d near were hurt _again_ , and you're planning on going places where there could easily be _worse_ things, and – and – don't you _dare!_ Do you know what you mean to me? Don't you _dare_ get hurt!"

Stunned, Newsie held her, fumbled for words: "Gina…I…I'm sorry…I…"

"First it's your cousin, then it's your aunt, then it's the _story!"_ she snapped, holding him down with strong thighs, her hands tight on his shoulders. "I don't care if you're a Muppet, I don't care how many times things have fallen on you at work, _you are not indestructible!"_

"I…I know that," he stammered, overwhelmed in more than body. "Gina, I…I love you! I didn't mean to…"

"You don't _think!_ You get all caught up in your next big scoop, the next big story, and off you go, rushing right into the jaws of – of – of some disgusting giant bug-thing I don't even have a name for! And if you'd been killed down there I wouldn't even know about it! I didn't even know _where you were_ except at that stupid snack company!"

"I'm sorry," Newsie gulped; he flinched when a drop splashed onto his nose, and his own eyes filled with water in response. "Gina, I'm so sorry…I love you!" He reached up to touch her face, caressing her cheeks, meeting her fierce, wet gaze. "I love you!" he choked hoarsely.

"Oh God, Aloysius, I can't lose you," Gina said, her voice dropping, the anger giving way. "I can't. Please don't put yourself in any more danger. Please don't…"

"I won't," he promised, his arms clasping her neck as she lowered her head to his, touching noses, her tears streaming down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, stroking her face, feeling her holding him tight. He swallowed hard, heart sinking. _Have I really been that callous? Is finding Chester worth upsetting Gina?_ The thought of losing her made his chest feel hollow. "I'm sorry… I _love_ you."

"Look," she sniffled, raising her head just far enough to stare into his eyes, "I know this is something you have to do. I understand that. You wouldn't be _you_ if you didn't go after the news, no matter how screwed-up that news is. I loved that about you even before we met."

"You…you did?"

"Yeah. How you present your News Flashes…always so dedicated, even when you know it's going to hurt," Gina said, and gave him the tiniest, briefest smile. "That told me then what kind of Muppet you were. I love that about you; I just –"

He pulled her lips down to his, kissing her fervently, his tongue locking hers, determined not to let go. Eventually they both needed more oxygen, and broke the kiss, throats tight, eyes wet, nerves singing in chorus. "I'll drop the story," he whispered.

"No. Newsie, no."

"It's not fair to you," he argued. "I'm sorry! I should have thought of that already. Rhonda's right; I _am_ an idiot, and I've been selfish, and stu—"

"Shut up," Gina growled, one hand grabbing his mouth and holding it closed. "Can't you allow me a little emotional release after nearly getting yourself killed?"

"Mf mnn?" he wondered, startled.

 _"_ _No_ I'm not mad at you," she said, though her tone said otherwise. "I _love_ you, Newsman. Every bit of you, including the part too curious for his own good."

She released his mouth; he worked his jaw a little, getting the kink out of his foam. "So…but…does that mean…"

"It means," Gina murmured, sliding both hands under his shirt again, "that whatever you do, _remember_ you have someone who would be devastated losing you. Can you do that?"

"Uh huh," Newsie gasped, astonished at the swift turns of the conversation. Gina moved a little, and he groaned in unexpected response, and blinked up at her with blurry, baffled brown eyes. "What…what just happened?"

She kissed the tip of his pointed nose. "Consider it a lesson in stress release."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine. But we can make it both…"

Newsie stifled another groan at the next thing she did. "G-gina…"

She kissed his mouth again, one hand tickling through his hair while the other slid to the waistband of his pajama pants. "Just keep this in mind: if you _ever._ Run _into._ A big nasty monster _again…"_ Keeping quiet took all the control he possessed, as she punctuated each few words with a flex of her hips. "You had _better…run…home."_

"I will," he gasped.

Gina drew him into another deep kiss. When she pulled back for a long breath, he smiled at her hesitantly. "You…you still love me? Even though I…I wasn't thinking?"

"Absolutely," she murmured, and bent her head to kiss the felt showing under his somehow-unbuttoned shirt. "Mmm…my delicious…Al-o-ish-us."

"It is _pronounced_ A- _loy_ -zhuss," he corrected with a puzzled frown. She knew perfectly well how it went!

"Oh," she said, sitting up straight and giving him a wide, innocent look. "I guess I forgot, what with you _away_ so much tromping down sewer pipes…"

"I think you need a reminder," he said gruffly, but a smile touched his mouth.

"Oooh. Maybe I do," Gina said, and with a giggle suddenly reversed their positions. Newsie clutched her sides, startled, then relaxed into a grin. Gina kept up the mock-bimbo act, pouting at him. "It's just so _hard_ to remember, when my Muffin's never home…"

 _"_ _Muffin!"_ he cried, then growled at her, "You _definitely_ need a refresher course in Muppetology!"

"Refresh me, then," she laughed.

A few minutes later, she seemed to remember how to pronounce it perfectly fine: "Aloysius…oh, Aloysius…"

In the living room, Rhonda groaned and drew the fluffy-soft blanket tight over her ears. The walls, as it turned out, were _not_ thick enough.


	32. Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY. _In which Van Neuter finds mussels unhelpful; the Yipyips clean up; and Snookie gets a dose of cod liver oil secondhand._

When the intercom switched on in the dead of night, Van Neuter jumped almost a half-meter off the floor. "Doctor. How does the serum progress?"

"I _hate_ disembodied evil voices," the vet muttered, then answered loudly, "Oh, coming along, coming along just swell!"

"I was informed you now have a pool of test subjects to draw from. Why is the serum not yet ready?" The boss's voice sounded displeased. Even Van Neuter shivered a little at that silky, ominous tone.

"Oh, well, I'm working on it!" Van Neuter cast an irritated glance at the cage in the corner of the lab. "It would be _easier_ if I didn't have to work around their filming schedule, though!"

"We had to do _something_ with them," the underlord said reasonably. "After all, it would be a shame to waste the rejects. Work faster, Doctor. The serum _must_ be ready by Dark Ascension night! I will have your guts for…" The voice paused, then continued more calmly, "It is _imperative_ that I complete the transformation that night. All the signs indicate it is the best possible atmosphere for complete and flawless genetic assimilation. If this chance is missed, it may be a long time before another presents itself…and that will be a long, _long_ time for anyone who has failed me. An interminable time in which I will explore the limits of the felt to withstand _pain_ …do I make myself understood?"

"Oh, absolutely," Van Neuter agreed, "except for that part about the Ascending. Does that mean you want _wings_ now? Can we go over this one more –"

The intercom shut off with an audible _clunk._ Van Neuter scowled at it. "I mean I understand he's too darned big to get _out_ of that control center and come see me personally, but honestly, this voice-contact-only-thing is worse than a text message breakup!"

"Gah?" Thatch McGurk wondered, floppy ears perked.

 _"No_ I don't know anything about that! It was just an example!" Van Neuter fumed, quickly shoving his iDrone into a pocket so Thatch wouldn't see the last message Composta had sent from her cliff-diving resort. So she was flirting with a local lichen-seller! So what? She was just trying to make him feel jealous; she'd done it before, this was nothing new, oh, Composta and her fickle affections…

"Fahzagga bugga erg?" Thatch asked, indicating the cage in the back corner, where the newest subject was beginning to stir, the sedative wearing off.

"Oh! Oh! She's waking up! Hello darling!" Van Neuter hurried to the cage, crooning at its occupant. "Here's some water for you. Welcome to your new home!"

"What…what's going on? Who are you?" the young woman asked, blinking in confusion at the wires of the cage. "Oh my god, what is this? Oh my god let me out! Let me _out!"_

"There, there, nothing's going to happen to you," Van Neuter assured her, trying to offer the water bottle again, poking its long drinking-tube through the bars. "Don't worry! We're not perverts! We're only going to do some protogenetic stem cell phantasmagoric modifications!"

"You're _what?"_ the woman shrieked, and began banging on the wires. Thatch reflected it was a good thing they'd left her mittens and coat on, otherwise not only would she be cold down here with no fur to protect her, but her hands would really be bruised by the metal cage.

Van Neuter straightened up, shaking his head. "Honestly, don't they teach basic mad science biology anymore? It means we're not going to do anything _weird_ to you; we're just going to try to turn you into a monster! Now you just settle down, and -"

The woman didn't seem ready to settle at all. After another minute of the screaming, a tired vet turned to Thatch. "Well _this_ isn't helpful! You couldn't have found me a mute?"

"Varazagga buzza razza muh!" the monster snapped back.

"Don't you get snippy with _me_ about your hours! _I_ haven't had any sleep in _ten days!_ What do you think this caffeine-infused ultrastimulant Jell-O is all about?" Van Neuter cried, waving a plastic tray of slippery green sludge at his assistant. "Now go get one of those loafers downstairs and get this screaming thing out of my lab! I can't even _think_ with all that noise!" As the grumbling, green-haired monster with three weary eyes trudged out to find his own assistant, Van Neuter threw an old Army blanket over the cage. "My goodness, if I wanted to hear all that I'd go catch a Peep show in Times Square!"

Thatch's head popped back in the door, looking more alert. "Peefa shazza?"

"Oh you know, those little marshmallow things," Van Neuter explained crossly. "There's a group of the Halloween ones doing a scary show right now, some kind of street theatre thing. They scream when customers eat them. Kind of a hard way to make a living, I think, but who am I to judge show business?" He chuckled, then whirled on the monster. "What are you still doing here? Go find some _muscles_ to move this cage down to the studio!"

He fussed with his chemistry setup, replacing some of the pipettes with thicker-stemmed ones to withstand higher temperatures and adjusting the asbestos insulation around the burners. "Honestly! Some monsters just have their minds in the gutter all the time…although I guess that's what happens when you live in the sewers…" At the woman's quiet whimpering in the cage, he rolled his eyes and sighed. "Oh come on! You're about to be involved in a highly unlikely physiological transmogrification which will change you into a slavering, furry monster on the _cellular_ level! Doesn't that make you feel _any_ better? Some people have no regard for science," he muttered when the whimpering, if anything, grew louder under the covered wires. "Now, if I can just finish this primordial glop reheating without any _more_ interruptions, I can trot on down to that new show taping and administer it to _all_ the contestants…"

"Awright, buddy, where's da fire?"

Van Neuter stared, took off his goggles and stared some more at the group of shiny-shelled clams crowding through his lab door, a satisfied-looking McGurk right behind them. "What the heck is this?" Van Neuter demanded.

"Whaddayou talkin' about? Get _this_ guy! Hey buddy, a little more respect for a workin' bivalve, huh?" another clam shouted. It sounded like a Teamster on helium.

"Ezza muzza fah cabba," Thatch said, perplexed; hadn't he brought exactly what the vet had asked for?

"No, you idiot! I meant someone _big_ enough to move this big cage, not…oh, the heck with it," Van Neuter sighed. He gestured from the clams to the large square in the corner. "Take that down to studio number twenty-two…"

"Where's da crane?"

"Yeah, ya don't expect _us_ to lug that thing down three stories, do ya mac?"

"Forget it! Get these stupid oysters out of my lab!" Van Neuter shouted at a cringing Thatch. "And go find me some really _strong_ monsters! Ones with more muscles than you apparently have _brains!"_

"Hey, who you callin' a' oyster?"

"Some noive!"

"Eh, forget this wacko. Why don't we go occupy the docks?"

"Sounds good – as long as we stay away from the restaurants," another agreed, and the pack of North Atlantic Rainbow Mussels tromped out the door again. Van Neuter sank to a bench, head in his hands. Much as it pained him to admit, he really, _really_ missed Mulch right about now.

Humming to himself, Bobo the bear chewed on the end of a pencil which seemed to be more teethmarks than wood and lead anymore. "Five-letter word for _protection,_ ends in a 'D'…well, least I _think_ it does…man, these Sudoku things are tricky!" He looked up as a woman in scrubs approached, and set the newspaper aside. "Hey, where ya think you're goin', sister?"

"Time to check her vitals," the nurse said, trying a key in the lock of the door behind Bobo. "Is locking her room really necessary? She's perfectly safe here!"

"Ah, well, that's not the information _I_ was given," Bobo retorted, nose twitching. "Hey…you said vittles, but I don't smell any food on ya! What gives?" He stepped between the nurse and the door, scowling.

Irritated, the nurse snapped, "I said _vitals!_ As in _vital signs!_ If there's no change at all before tomorrow morning, she's scheduled to have the breathing apparatus removed. Now let me past so I can do my job, you big furry clown!"

"Who you callin' a clown? Hey, those rumors about me in the circus are _completely_ false! Who told you that?"

As they continued to argue, a wormlike thing with four eyes and vestigial claws slithered around their feet and wriggled under the door, unnoticed by either. The fat back end of it stuck in the crack under the kickplate, and it grunted and pulled, finally yanking itself all the way into the room with a small popping noise. It froze, each eye swiveling a different direction, but the coast looked clear: the only occupant of the room, the old Muppet woman in the hospital bed, seemed asleep. Confidently, the worm-assassin crawled across the cold linoleum and began wrapping itself around one of the lowered bedrails, pulling itself up like an inchworm. "Hehhh…hehhh…" it panted, enjoying the anticipation of murder. This job looked ridiculously easy: why, there wasn't even a guard with a brain on duty! The worm would crawl into the old lady's throat, and stop her breath, and that beeping little heart monitor would stutter and stop and Deathcrawler would revel in the sound of the flatli—

The pink one was waiting atop the bed.

"Yurgh?" the worm said, startled, coming eyeballs to eyeballs with a fuzzy pink thing with a _very_ big mouth.

"Bad! Bad cow! Yiiiip yip yip yip yip!"

And tentacles, the worm realized too late. The thing also had quite a _lot_ of tentacles…

"Bad cow! No hurt! Bad! Bad bad bad yip yip!" a blue thing identical to the pink one chimed in, grabbing the tail end of the worm; the pink one grabbed its head. Tiny claws flailed helplessly as the two creatures yanked the would-be assassin back and forth. The worm screamed and wriggled but couldn't pull free. However, in all the tug-of-warring, Blue's tentacles became entangled with Pink's, and after a handful of yelps and cries of "Ow! ow ow ow!" they ceased pulling, staring bewildered at the mess of ropy appendages. The worm, gasping, crawled at top speed toward Ethel's mouth where a breathing tube currently lay.

"Bad! Bad cow! Nope nope nope!" Blue shouted, trying to free himself from his companion.

Inspired, Pink simply lunged forward and gulped the worm entire. He chewed a minute. They sat atop the bed, staring curiously at one another. "Cow…good?" Blue asked.

"Cow…" Pink abruptly turned puce. "Nooope! Nopenopenopenope! Uh-uh! Uh-uh!" He jumped from the bed and raced to the tiny bathroom, dragging his partner along roughly.

"Awwk! Not ten-legged race! Nope! Nope nope!" Blue protested, then righted himself finally by the commode as Pink disgorged the nasty thing from his stomach. Hastily Pink flushed, and a wailing, gurgling worm vanished. They watched the water swirl and refill quietly. They looked at one another with wide, round eyes.

"Wash legs," Blue reminded Pink.

"Yip, wash. Yip yip yip," Pink agreed. They dragged themselves up to the sink with difficulty, Blue hanging half-off the edge of the porcelain while Pink tried to reach the faucet. "Wash! Yip yip! Awww, wash!"

"Awww!" Blue grunted, struggling to untangle himself. He succeeded right at the tipping point. He crashed to the floor; Pink tumbled into the sink. Groaning, both glared at one another.

"Bad yip," Pink said. The water poured over him from a broken-off faucet lever.

"Wash _legs,_ not eyeballs," Blue scoffed up at him. "Uh-uh. Uh-uh. Noooope."

 _"You_ wash!" Pink splashed his partner, soaking half the floor. "Wash! Yip yip yip!"

"Noooope nope nope nope nope!" Blue shot back, skidding around on the slippery tiles, unable to get a grip with tentacles sliding every direction. The room door opened; both creatures froze, then with a loud gulp yanked their lower jaws over their heads.

"You could've remembered to turn off the water!" the nurse scolded Bobo; he lumbered after her, watching her carefully as she grabbed a pink rag in the sink and used it to forcibly turn the water shutoff. "And laundry goes in the hamper here!" She tossed the pink rag into the plastic bag dangling from a lidded hoop, used the blue one on the floor to mop up more of the spilled water, and plunked the sodding thing into the hamper as well.

"Wasn't me," Bobo muttered. "Somethin' funny's goin' on in here…"

"The only funny thing I see is _you,_ and that's not much of a joke," the nurse said gruffly, and checked Ethel's heart monitor and breathing rate. Bobo studied the readouts as well over her shoulder, backing up only when the nurse glared at him.

"Uh, she's gonna be okay, right?" he asked.

The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, but probably not. It'll be peaceful, though…I doubt she'll even wake up." She shook her head at the bear shuffling from foot to foot. "Look, if you're that determined to guard her, why don't you park yourself in here?"

"Oh, I, uh, that wouldn't be right, y'see, I'm not exactly family," Bobo muttered, embarrassed. "I'm just doing this for a friend, a guy I work with at the theatre. He's not a clown either…though I gotta admit his act is pretty funny…" He chuckled, then remembered where he was when he caught sight of the motionless old woman in the bed, and sobered quickly. "Uh. Think I'll just go sit outside some more."

"Whatever works for you," the nurse sighed. Bobo followed her out of the room, gently shutting the door behind them. The nurse looked up when an enormous paw caught her sleeve.

"Say, uh…about them vittles…do ya think you could send up a sammich or somethin'? Guarding people's hard work," he wheedled.

The nurse looked at the small wastebasket next to his camp stool filled with discarded Slurpee cups and Hobos and Fwinkies wrappers. "Yeah, looks like it."

Inside the bathroom, two fuzzy-limbed creatures flapped against the thick plastic of the laundry bag. "AwwAWW…bag," Blue complained. "Wet in bag! Yip yip yip."

"Your fault wet," Pink growled, straining all eleventy-two tentacles and his face against the wall of the bag, making an image not unlike a sea anemone with googly-eyes as it stretched but did not break the plastic. "Mm. Bag hard. Yip yip yip."

Blue poked Pink excitedly. "Bag! Yip yip yip yip! _Bag!"_

"Aaawww?" It took Pink a second to grasp the idea; then he began hopping happily along with Blue. "Bag! Bag! Yip yip yip!"

Munching sounds and the strange noise of wetly ripping plastic sounded faintly from within the room. Seated outside the door, Bobo looked wistfully toward the nurses' station a few yards away, where one of the girls was apparently chowing down on a sandwich. "Man, she sure knows how to eat well…all that noise is makin' me hungry!" He sighed, hoping one of them would indeed take pity and bring him something to snack on, and picked up his paper again. "Lessee, where was I…oh yeah. Hmmm… 'Card'? No, not enough letters…'yard'? Huh, no, although I guess a yard could _be_ protected…man. Those Japanese really know how to make a tough puzzle!"

The show taping wasn't going very well. Carl shook his head, annoyed, as the All-Fur Glee Club Singers cavorted onstage, tripping over one another and flubbing the lyrics: "I am blue—"  
"I am green –"  
"I am red –"  
"I am…uh…purple?"

"That's _gray,_ dummy!"

"Who you callin' a dummy?"

"What's the difference anyway?" the ones not immediately involved in the argument chorused, "We're all monsters!"

Carl waved his long arms like a conductor when the camera cut to him at his desk, then leaned back to snarl quietly at Snookie: "Go on, get out there!"

"And let them rip me to shreds? Buddy, not a snowball's chance in –" Snookie snapped back, drowned out as the singers danced closer to the desk on the set of _'Monsters Tonight!'_

"I am fat," sang a skinny thing with horns sprouting like a chia garden all over his head.

"I am thin," added a monster whose obesity would have made Thog envious.

"I am…uh…green!" bellowed the same monster who'd forgot his first line. The "fat" monster whacked him in the rear with a swing of his horns, and another scuffle broke out behind the main line of dancers.

"I am tall," shrieked a tiny creature as it frantically scuttled out of the way of the brawl.

"Doesn't matter much at all – we're all monsters!" everyone yelled, with the audience rumbling along at the refrain.

"The script says, you jump onstage at the end of the song, and Georgina there eats you alive," Carl growled, nodding at the enormous orange-furred thing with round eyeballs and a demure spangled tutu.

Snookie shook his head vehemently. "No! I won't! I have _had_ it, Carl! You have screwed up my chances to finally get off that d—d game show, you have barbequed me, you have humiliated me, and I have simply…had… _enough!"_ Snookie crossed his arms over his chest, teeth gritted in a fake smile since the camera kept cutting to them for a reaction shot while the musical number continued.

Bewildered, Carl turned to stare directly at his sidekick for the talk show. "You _can't_ refuse!"

Though he knew it probably meant something worse was in store, Snookie clenched his whole body into what he felt was an immovable rock position. "Yeah? Watch me!"

Carl scratched his furry knoll between the gilded horns. He beckoned his producer over. "Uh, hey, Bart? Snookums here says he won't do the comedy bit. Can he actually refuse?"

"Not really," the goat-bearded troll growled, glaring at Snookie. The plaid-coated host swallowed a mouthful of fear, but stood – or sat, rather – his ground. The producer adjusted his headset uncomfortably; the left side kept slipping over his down-turning floppy ear. "Do whatever you want to him. Not like it matters anyway."

Carl waved at Georgina, who ambled over much the way a cement truck in a tutu might. "Bon appétit," Carl said loud enough for the boom mike to pick up, and as the audience roared with laughter, the orange monstrosity with too much eyeshadow plucked a trembling Snookie from his chair and began stuffing him down her gullet feet-first. Snookie stared back at Carl, appearing deeply betrayed, then resigned. He closed his eyes and held his breath as the creature gulped, and applause thundered through the studio when the last lock of his black hair slid between her jaws right as the song finished:

"Yes we're happy girls and guyses – we're all monsters!"

The producer shrugged. "He's only got a few days left anyway. Who cares what you do to him?"

Puzzled, Carl had to return his attention to the camera. "The Gleeful Furry Club, folks! Direct from the sewers of Kalamazoo! Stick around, 'cause we've got lots of great guests tonight, right here with me, Carl, the Big Mean Host of _Monsters Tonight!"_ He tossed a cue card through the fake hellgate behind him to the sound effect of tinkling glass, and as they broke for what would be a commercial when the show aired later tonight, he ran after the troll. "Hey, whaddaya mean he's only got a few days left? That's _my_ comical Muppet sidekick! Who else is trying to get him? I thought I had exclusive rights!"

The producer shrugged again, checking his clipboard. "Get the stage swept; someone left their toes out there again!" He angled his headset mic away to speak with Carl. "Thought you'd heard: come Halloween night, anything non-monstrous around here is gonna be sacrificed. That includes short, yellow and obnoxious."

"Sacrificed? To who?" Carl demanded, shaggy fur bristling. "I get dibs! I always get dibs! I been working with Snookie for over twenty years, Bart! Who do I gotta talk to about this nonsense?"

"Talk to the boss," Bart said, glaring at Carl. "That's his decision. Official memo came down days ago. Don't you ever check your Screammail?"

"Wait…you mean sacrificed like…dead?"

"What other definition is there?" Bart wondered, shaking his raggedy head. "Get back on set; we're ready to film the first guest segment."

Automatically but uneasily, Carl resumed his place at the big (and recently rebuilt) desk, and thumbed through his oversized cue cards, trying to bring his mind to bear on the first real segment of the show: he'd never interviewed Big Mama before, and he wanted to make a good impression for his audience, but he kept glancing over in the wing where Georgina lounged on a stack of rotten pallets. _Snookie…killed? No more? No more chances to slather him in sweet molasses and roast him for three hours? No more beer-battered Muppet with chips?_ The idea was almost intolerable. Before the camera turned back on, Carl gestured to a stagefrackle. "Go find some castor oil, and give that lump of orange fur over there a bottle of it. Wait – slap a Perrier label on it so she'll drink the whole thing, okay?"

He leaned back in his custom-goblin-leather chair, smiling. "Welcome back! I'm Carl! You've known me for my wide throat and my gourmet taste for adorable animals, but my first guest tonight puts those traits to shame with her own delectable gluttony! Give it up for that scarily scrumptious scavenger – Big Mama!"

The crowd hooted and clapped and thumped their various appendages as the shark-mouthed, somewhat groundhog-faced monster waddled onstage. She waved at the crowd, grimacing (or maybe that was a wide smile, hard to tell with her), and settled into the chaise opposite Carl. After the opening pleasantries in which Carl called her a chow-hound of charnel, and she returned the compliment by praising the stench arising from Carl's unwashed fur, they got down to business. "So, Big – may I call you Big? – I understand you have a new documentary film you've been doing! Tell us about that."

"Oh, yeah, it's a hum-dinger! We're hoping to show it at Scumdance in the spring," Big Mama said proudly. "It's called _'Requiem and a Scream,'_ and it follows me around as I hunt, dismember, and devour everything from frozen yogurt to wooly mammoths…"

As she rumbled on, Carl snuck a look into the wing stage right. Georgina had guzzled half the oil, and was making terribly crude faces as she wrestled with Snookie struggling in her gut. _Oh, good, that shouldn't take long,_ Carl thought. He beamed at Big Mama. She chuckled.

"Ya know, Carl, you're not a bad-looking monster yourself," she growled.

Taken aback, Carl looked her up and down once. "Uh…you'd never get the horns past your back teeth," he advised warily.

She chortled. "Oh, no! I didn't mean for _me!_ See, my mama, Even Bigger Mama, has been kinda lonely lately, since Bigger Daddy passed…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Carl said. "My condolences to your family."

"Aw, it wasn't that bad," Big Mama assured him, "once Mama took that furball pill, he went right on through just fine."

"Ah…ha," Carl gulped. He didn't particularly like the idea of being swallowed by something even larger than himself. "So, uh. What other projects do you have in the pipeline…uh, in the works?"

Big Mama cheerfully chatted on. Carl glanced twice more over at Georgina, seeing her being ill all over one of the unluckiest stagefrackles alive (having just returned from a trip through the sewers the hard way), then seeing her bawling out the Frackle who'd brought her the castor oil, smacking him over the head repeatedly with the empty bottle. A dazed, dripping Snookie crawled away from the fracas and plucked his makeup towel from a chair offstage. At the next break, Carl strolled by him to refill his coffee cup. The Muppet sat, head down, with his towel wrapped around his sodden shoulders. Carl grinned at him. "You're welcome."

"I have you to thank for the slime in my hair? Great. Wonderful," Snookie muttered. He tried to clean out his ears. "This is _completely_ disgusting. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate working with you?"

"Not lately," Carl replied, and walked back to his desk. After a minute, a downcast, still-dripping Snookie joined him in his own chair over by the band. Carl introduced an edition of Stupid Muppet Tricks, and watched with a smile as Snookie rolled over and played dead for a giant feathery opossum; the audience howled when a glowering, silent Snookie received his reward of Snookie Snacks.

"That's right, friends: Snookie Snacks! Perfect treats for the pathetic co-host in _your_ life!" Carl grinned. "Up next: gossip grrr Perez Stilted chats about himself, himself, and maybe even himself!" He cast a cheery smile over at the wing, where the snobby three-headed tabloid-site monster waited, all three noses in the air. Applause rose, and the band played "Heard It Through the Grapevine." Carl turned to Snookie. "Come on, you were in there, what, two minutes? You've had worse."

The slimy-haired Muppet raised tired eyes, and simply stared at Carl. _Wow…when did he get so…so…old-looking?_ Carl wondered, startled. "Hey, uh, ya might wanna get makeup. You got some serious shadows around your eyes, Snookums."

"Can makeup help me _sleep?"_ Snookie retorted. "Do you know how many shows they have me doing every _day_ now? _Do_ you?" When Carl shook his head, puzzled, Snookie leaned closer and hissed angrily, "Twenty- _three! Twenty-three,_ as of this morning's count! I have had _no_ sleep unless you count passing out on the set of ' _Take My Wife's Fleas!'_ earlier today! They won't let me even _see_ the sun! Look at my felt! I'm practically _beige!"_ Carl fumbled for a reply, but Snookie kept ranting, too exhausted to care. "They feed me frog only knows what sludge, I'm lucky if I get a shower a day even when stuff like _this_ happens, I'm tired, I'm sick, and I am ready to just call it quits!"

Perturbed, Carl answered slowly, "Well…I guess…I mean…maybe you could…just ask them to go ahead and kill you?"

Snookie choked, and spat out something from Big Mama's stomach into his handkerchief. Disgusted, he tossed it into a wastebasket. "What, and leave show business?" he quipped, and then began to laugh. Softly at first, then louder, his voice rising in tone, until a bewildered Carl could only stare at the bedraggled Muppet bent over double in his chair, laughing so hard he was crying…and then he was just crying. Carl looked around quickly, saw none of the cameras were on, and carefully patted his longtime victim on the back.

"Hey, uh, Snookie…look…take the rest of the show off," Carl whispered. He didn't know what else to offer, but he certainly couldn't have a hysterical sidekick messing up his show.

Snookie gulped loudly, trying to get his emotion under control. "Carl, I…I can't…I just can't do this anymore. I can't." He looked up at the monster with shining, deeply lined eyes. "Look, why don't you just…just put me through your sausage machine like you keep saying you want to, and get it over with, okay?"

Speechless, Carl stared at him. Snookie looked away, sniffling, then yanked himself upright and wiped his face with his sleeve, only spreading the slime around more. "Excuse me. I have to get cleaned up before the next show. This stuff might be flammable, and that would hurt."

Carl wasn't the only one watching the spectacle of a slump-shouldered, goo-covered man of felt slouching offstage; from the doorway of the studio, Uncle Deadly's eyes narrowed to pinpricks of glowing green. _A Muppet so depressed he WANTS to be eaten once and for all?_ Looking around, Deadly noticed that Snookie was the only Muppet present. Now that he saw that, it seemed…odd. Monsters had always worked with the Muppets, however awkwardly or uneasily…and the Muppet troupe, irritating as they could be when one was trying to catch a few winks in the flyloft and they simply _had_ to do a run-through of that silly dance-hall pun-cracking sketch, had always welcomed the odd, the unusual, the just plain drooling-all-over-themselves. For all the faults of the felted and furred, Deadly had noticed through the years that everyone who wanted to be accepted usually _was,_ which was indeed more than he could say for the population of the world at large. Watching this pale-yellow Muppet with the bad plaid jacket trip over a lighting cable and then just sit there, despondent, until a stagefrackle bundled him into a wheelbarrow and carted him away, caused Deadly to frown.

 _What could make a Muppet that depressed? Why isn't he as happy working down here with all these fine fellows as our kind are up above?_ Deadly's gaze switched back to Carl, who was exchanging insults of an increasingly personal nature with some gossip hack. _Well, that's very crass, but I suppose it makes for good ratings…but why are these performers concerned with such petty things? Why aren't they out chasing people or laying in wait in closets instead? Why aren't ALL of them?_ he wondered, his eyes sweeping the large and tightly-packed crowd of monsters in this soundstage. Scowling, he crept unnoticed back into the main corridor. This whole complex seemed to be nothing but soundstages. Who would organize such a ridiculous thing?

Disturbed, he slunk along the halls, determined to find out what this was all for. _I'll find Pew. He was always a smart chap, if a little…misguided. Surely he has some answers._ Deadly faded into the shadows as the stagefrackle pushing the wheelbarrow trundled past; the depressed Muppet was no longer in it. Deadly wondered where the poor fellow had gone. _Hopefully to take a bath: while moldy clothing is always in style, hair grease went out decades ago._ No, this was no convention, and no party, but _what_ all this over-organization could augur still eluded the ghostly dragon…and he did _not_ like that. _He_ was accustomed to being the elusive one!

With a snort of annoyance, Deadly glided along the wide tunnel until he found a passage leading down. _As they say, dig deeper, Watson,_ he thought, starting down, then chuckled to himself. "No, no. I ought to have played Sherlock! I would have been _very_ droll." Another thought popped into his head, and he paused. "I wonder if they have anything like a proper Monsterpiece Theatre show here? I shouldn't at all mind doing another Othello…" Cheered a bit, he hastened to the next level below.


	33. Chapter 31 (part 1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (part one). _In which Sweetums accepts a proposal for lunch, and Newsie takes his vitamins._

They found Sweetums sitting down in the green room with a plateful of something wriggling. Newsie hung back, and Rhonda poked him. "Come on, come on, ask him already!"

Newsie frowned, but then took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and approached the shaggy troll. The slurping, appreciative noises didn't help any. "Uh, excuse me, Sweetums, I was wondering –"

Scooter ran over, plunking a large goldfish bowl on the table. "Hey, sorry, but would you mind if I left my oscar here a while? It's kind of crazy upstairs – Beau is trying to build a setpiece for that Full Loon sketch tonight, and Beaker is, um, helping..." All of them looked up as a heavy crash sounded from the stage above, followed by Beau yelling.

"Beaker! You have to hold it _up_ to nail it down! It's not going to just stand there on its own, you know!"

"Mee! Mee mee meep mee mee!"

"Here, why don't we put the Muppet Labs AutoNailer to work? It's a much-improved design over the Electric Hammer; it works on Bluetooth!" Bunsen's cheerful voice floated down. "You see, we simply program in the coordinates for the job _here,_ and send the signal from any wireless device, _so..."_

 _"Meeep!_ Mee mee mee me!"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Beaker! It's not going to hammer you! Now just hold that upright like Mr Beauregard said, and –"

 _WHACK! WHACK!_

 _"Meeeeeeeee!"_

"Uh, anyway," Scooter continued, drawing everyone's attention away from the probable carnage upstairs, "My oscar fish pretty much trashed his aquarium while I was out of town, so while his tank is being cleaned and repaired today, he needs a temporary home. Would you guys mind if I just set him down here a while?"

"An Oscar fish?" Newsie wondered, studying the small brown-blue mottled fish with a very large underbite and big teeth. "I didn't know Grouch fish existed..."

"Oh, no, that's just the name of the fish," Scooter explained.

Rhonda snickered. "You named your pet after Oscar? Oh _this_ I gotta Tweet." Pulling out her phone, her tiny claws ticked rapidly over the keypad. "He is gonna be _sooo_ embarrassed!"

"No, no," Scooter corrected. "That's not _his_ name. The _kind_ of fish he is is called oscar. His _name_ is Cecil. Actually, I'm not _completely_ sure he's an oscar...he may be a Jack Dempsey..."

"Wait," Newsie said, confused. "So...you have a Grouch fish named Cecil Jack Dempsey?"

"No, Jack Dempsey is the breed I think Cecil is," Scooter said. "They were named after the boxer because of their pugnacious disposition!"

"Oscar is named after a boxer?" Newsie asked.

Sweetums chortled. "Your fish is a boxer? What does he fight in, the lightweight _scale?_ Har har har!"

The fish glared at them, then wound up one fin and whomped the little ceramic castle in his bowl, sending it sailing high up and out to crash across the room. "Hey, watch it!" Rowlf complained, ducking behind the upright piano.

"What division _does_ he box in?" Rhonda asked, impressed.

"Well, uh, I was going to say he doesn't box, but maybe I'm wrong," Scooter mused. "Anyway, his _name_ is Cecil, and he is _either_ an oscar or a Jack Dempsey. Look, I gotta run. Catch you all later tonight." The gofer hurried off, leaving Sweetums chewing his breakfast, Rhonda snapping a picture of the fish on her phone's camera, and the Newsman looking perplexed.

"Er...so...he doesn't box, but he's named after a Grouch boxer called Cecil?" Newsie asked.

Rhonda shrugged. "I still think Oscar is gonna be peeved when this goes viral."

"I'm confused," Newsie muttered.

"I'm Rhonda. Pleased ta meetcha. Now can we get on with this? _Ask_ him already!"

Nervously, Newsie cleared his throat. "Ahem...uh...Sweetums?"

"Yeah?" The troll's head jerked up, his yellow eyes startlingly large up close, with something brown and faintly wiggling dangling from between his huge lips. Newsie forced down his instinct to flee, and tried to sound as humble as possible.

"Er...Rhonda Rat here and I...were planning an expedition into the subway tunnels. Today, if possible...and we...we wondered if...you'd like to come along?"

Sweetums blinked. "An expe-what?"

"Like an adventure," Rhonda said, seeming a little uneasy herself about standing so close to those enormous feet. "We're going exploring. Wanna come?"

"Oh, sure!" the troll exclaimed. "Can we bring a picnic lunch?"

Newsie stared at him. "Uh...why not?"

"Great! Oh, boy! I love underground picnics! But, uh..." His voice lowered as he glanced around conspiratorially. "Ya know there's some nasty things down there, right? Are we going anywhere near the Pesties?"

Newsie looked at Rhonda; she shrugged. He offered, "Uh...maybe. That's why we wanted a, um, a big strong troll like you around."

Sweetums stared wide-eyed at him a moment, and Newsie feared he'd made some sort of _faux pas,_ but then a loud guffaw sent the wriggling thing flying from the troll's mouth. "Wuh huh huh huh! You think _I'm_ big? You should see my cousin Morty!"

"Well, you're enough troll for us," Rhonda assured him. She glanced at Newsie. "All that _some_ of us can handle..."

"Well..." Sweetums considered it, his head cocked to one side and his eyes rolling wildly a moment. "It sounds like fun...but ya gotta promise me we won't try to fight any Pesties if they wanna steal our lunch! Those guys are _mean!"_

"Er...okay," Newsie said. "What...what kind of picnic were you hoping for?"

"Ah, just grab a basket," Sweetums said. "We can get the food on the way!" He pointed at his bowl with the oversized red plastic sand-rake he'd been using as a fork. "You guys mind if I finish breakfast first?"

"Don't let us stop you," Rhonda said, and Sweetums continued shoveling the still-squirming, two-foot-long nightcrawlers with maple syrup into his ponderous jaws.

Newsie checked the contents of his wallet. "I hope I have enough cash for whatever food he has in mind."

Rhonda shook her head, watching the worms disappear down the black maw with morbid fascination. "I think he means we'll _literally_ pick something up on the way."

"Yeeesh," Newsie muttered. He pulled out the backup cell phone Gina had activated for him just this morning to notify her they had a guard for the expedition. When Scooter's fish noticed the worm feast, he stood up on his tail, and managed to inch his bowl closer to the food. "I wish this thing had bigger keys," Newsie grumbled, having difficulty texting, his broad fuzzy fingers too large for the tiny keypad.

"Gimme that, Thumbelino." Rhonda tapped out a message quickly: _Have troll. Will travel. The Plaid Marauder sends his love._

"The Plaid _what?"_ Newsie cried, trying to take his phone away. "Hey!"

On the table, Sweetums continued to munch contentedly, with many wet slurping noises. Cecil the fish took a deep breath, leaned out of his bowl, and grabbed a mouthful of worm ends. He plopped back into the water and began chewing, drawing them in like spaghetti. The longest one he munched, unfortunately, had its other end in Sweetums' mouth, a fact nobody noticed at first.

Rhonda kept texting Gina, dodging Newsie's flailing hands with the expertise only a rat could have, giggling. "Stop texting her!" Newsie growled, swiping his phone away finally, only to see the last message sent read, _His fingers are too big to type. Suggest you persuade him to have digit-reducing surgery to correct this problem. Will make him call you when we get out of the sewers. GPS is on so you can hunt down his sorry yellow butt if he gets eaten._

"That's not funny!" Newsie shouted, but Rhonda shook her head.

"Look, Goldie, I'm just trying to lighten the mood, okay?"

"This is serious!"

"I know, I know." Rhonda sobered a bit. "I still think we should stop on the way to load up on weaponry. And I _am_ serious about that." Behind them, Sweetums' lips and those of the fish touched as both ends of the worm-slurping met in the middle. They stared at one another a moment. Then with a roar, Sweetums backhanded the fishbowl off the table. The fish leaped out of the bowl, landed on the floor, and caught the bowl before it could smash into the wall, then crawled back into the water with many a burbling grumble. Rhonda and Newsie stared at that, then looked at Sweetums.

"I think we already have a weapon," Newsie murmured.

"I see your point." Rhonda shrugged. "He wants a picnic, he gets a picnic." She trotted over to the canteen, where breakfasty smells of syrup, cinnamon, and flash-frozen cod floated around a table of penguins. "Hey, Chef! We need a picnic basket!"

"Doo picky-nicky-baskie?"

"Yeah. Something Sweetums won't crush just by picking it up..."

Newsie walked away from the troll's increasingly messy breakfast; apparently the bottom of the dish had a lot of syrup. He heard footsteps and turned to see Dr Honeydew and Beaker traipsing down; Beaker was groaning softly, holding his even-more-red-and-swollen-than-usual nose, with a handful of nails spiking up from it like a punk porcupine. "Oh, Newsman! How fortunate we should run into you! Isn't that lucky, Beaker?"

Beaker meeped glumly, still holding his nose. "Uh...hello, Dr Honeydew. Why, what's going on?" Newsie asked.

"Beaker, do you have the pills?" Bunsen asked; Beaker let go of his nose with one hand long enough to hand Bunsen a vitamin bottle, then grabbed his nose before it flopped completely over to one side, the weight of the nails dragging it down. "Yes, well, go put some meat tenderizer on it. That should take the sting out," Bunsen said unconcernedly, and Beaker wobbled through the green room and down the hall to the lab. Honeydew thrust the bottle at the Newsman. _"Voila!"_

He accepted it hesitantly; one never knew what to expect from the lab guys. "Er...Ventrum Titanium with extra B-twelve?" he read aloud.

"Oh, no, sorry! That's the only bottle we could find which didn't have to be sterilized with broad-spectrum radiation after our last mold-growing experiment went somewhat...catastrophic. Newsman, you are looking at a revolution in supplements for sufferers such as yourself!"

"Er..." Newsie hadn't been aware he suffered from anything, except News Flashes. "Uh, thank you, but I already take gummi Muppavites every day, Dr Honeydew..."

"No, no, these are special! These are Anti-Monsterphobia pills!"

"What's the recommended dosage?" Rhonda asked.

"Oh...one a day."

"Take ten," the rat told Newsie. He glared at her. She handed him a juice box. With Rhonda watching expectantly and Honeydew beaming, Newsie cautiously swallowed one of the pills.

"There you go! Now please make certain you inform us of _any_ side effects."

"Side effects?" Newsie asked, giving the bottle a worried look. He seemed to recall Beaker's nose falling off once. Nervously he touched his own long, classically-sculpted nose.

"Oh, you know...sniffling, sore throat, dizziness, fatal spleen failure...just anything you might notice which seems out of the ordinary." Bunsen patted a startled Newsman on the shoulder, then trotted off to the lab. "Oh, Beaker! Beaker! Time for our morning yoga with yogurt! Do you have your gym shorts on yet?"

"Okay, I'm ready," Sweetums announced, nearly crushing a passing Bean Bunny as he shoved his chair back and stretched. He smiled a broad, wet smile, and Newsie had to struggle to suppress a shudder.

Rhonda patted his hand. "There, there. Suck it up, Trollophobic. He could be useful."

Newsie sighed. "Actually, my research indicates the best place to start would be the old Statler –"

Rhonda interrupted, "What? What would that cranky old codger know about the subway? No, strike that – he was probably _there_ when they opened the first train..."

"Not the old man, the hotel! Several luxury hotels, decades ago, had their own subway platforms underneath." Newsie pulled out a map he'd copied from the subway route plans, and pointed out the location: one rat stretched on tiptoe and one troll crouched, knobby knees protruding widely, to peer at the map. "I'm sure monsters freely roaming the main lines would be pretty hard to miss...they must be using the older tunnels and stations."

"So what time's the train come there?" Sweetums asked.

"No, no...we're not catching a train, Sweetums. We're going down the abandoned lines," Newsie explained.

"Oh," Sweetums said. Newsie squared his shoulders, nodded brusquely at them, and headed for the back door. He paused when he heard the heavy, rumbling voice behind him: "So...uh...how are we gonna get to the exploring part, if we're not takin' the train?" Rat and Muppet looked up at him, and the troll shrugged, bashful. "Uh...my feet are sensitive to moisture. Do I need my Croc shoes?"


	34. Chapter 31-2

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (part two). _In which the troll meets the terrifying Pesties, and then Snookie meets the troll._

Half an hour later, the Newsman kept an anxious lookout while Sweetums pried open the boarded-over entrance in the basement of the Statler Hotel (circa nineteen-ten). The troll struggled and strained with the massive iron-barred gate behind the rotted boards, then grumbled at Rhonda, "Crescent wrench!"

"C-wrench," the rat responded, handing up the tool from a sack the troll had brought along. Newsie jumped when Sweetums used the wrench to bang violently on the hinges of the gate; they clanged to the ground, and the gate fell inward with a long metal whine. "After you," Sweetums said, extending a gallant hand to Rhonda as she clambered over the rusty remains.

Newsie caught up quickly, glancing back several times, but apparently nobody noticed the noise upstairs in the near-deserted lobby of the hotel-turned-flophouse. They ventured into the dark, crumbling station. Newsie swung his flashlight out, up, and around, awed at the immensity of the place; the entire Muppet stage could have fit in here. "Aw, cool," Sweetums said. "This would be a _great_ place to hold the next Uggerh Family Reunion!" When the other two looked at him, he grinned. "Even cousin Morty would be able to play the trampoline-breaking contest!"

"See anything...buggy?" Rhonda asked, her own light darting from point to point along the soot-stained tile walls and arched-dome ceiling.

"No," Newsie replied, stepping to the edge of the platform and checking the tracks immediately below. They looked more like old railroad lines than modern subway rails, with no third rail present. Just to be sure, he picked up a bit of wooden debris from the platform and tossed it onto the tracks. It made a dull clunk. "No...it seems safe."

A screeching blast of sound made Newsie and Rhonda cry out and clap their hands over their ears. They backed away in horror at the swarm of clicking, shrieking beetles which clambered onto the platform from underneath. Rhonda screamed, and in her haste to get away ran straight into Newsie, tripping him; they fell in a frantic, flailing heap. Newsie threw his arms over his face, expecting the worst – and heard a happy roar from Sweetums: "Oh _great!_ Lunch!"

Newsie stared, astonished, as the troll scooped up huge handfuls of the squirrel-sized bugs, stuffing them into his mouth and crunching with sickening joy. In seconds the tide had turned, with bugs scattering for the far reaches of the vast room, chittering in fear. Sweetums nodded at the picnic hamper they'd dragged along in the bed of a small red pull-wagon. "Hey, open the lid so's I can pack a few for later!"

Shuddering, Rhonda opened the lid and shoved the hamper toward Sweetums. He shook his fingers, tumbling terrified bugs into the container before slamming and buckling the lid shut. The basket bumped and jerked around like a demented fisherman's creel. Noticing one last beetle scurrying desperately over his shoulder, Sweetums nabbed it. He held the squirming thing out to the Newsman. "Uh...want one? I think that's the jelly kind."

"N-no thank you," Newsie gulped. A dazed, shivering rat clung to his leg, but when he helped her to her feet, she shook him off with a glare of embarrassment. "Uh...according to the map, this line passes close by that Con-Ed tunnel where we found the leaking wall...and the caterpillar monster." Rhonda nodded, and Newsie asked quietly, "You believe me finally that I _did_ see something down there?"

"Goldie, after my fur got slobbered off, yeah, I'll believe just about anything you throw at me." He nodded, grateful, and she added, "Although I still refuse to give _any_ credence to Fleet's report last week on giant marshmallow Peeps running feral through the Ramble in Central Park."

Together they joined Sweetums at the edge of the platform. Rhonda eyed the rails dubiously. "Ya really think this will work?"

Newsie shrugged. "I hope so... Uh, Sweetums, can you put the wagon on the rails?"

Shortly they were walking along the abandoned tunnel, flashlights constantly sweeping ahead and above them, though no more bugs troubled them; word must have spread quickly about Sweetums. Their wagon squeaked as he pulled it along the rusted rails, carrying the picnic hamper (still wobbling in a fashion which made Newsie queasy, so he tried not to look at it), Sweetums' bag (which also moved around slowly; he didn't want to know why), and a small videocamera. The camerasloth had begged off the expedition when Rhonda had called him earlier, and had simply hung up on Newsie, so Rhonda had brought along the lower-quality instrument as a means of capturing _something_ down here. "Do you think we should go ahead and start filming?" Newsie whispered to her. The echoing silence of the old subway was starting to get on his nerves.

"Might as well," Rhonda agreed. She fetched the camera, avoiding touching either the hamper or the sack. Sweetums tromped along in front of them; she darted forward and got his attention by swatting repeatedly at his toes. "Hey! Hey, no kicking! Put me on your shoulder, ya lug, so I can get a clear shot!"

Sweetums cheerfully swung his bulk from side to side as he strolled; Rhonda clung to his fur with one hand while filming with the other. Newsie tried to stay alongside them, swinging his flashlight everywhere, feeling warm as he increased his pace to keep up with Sweetums' much longer strides. "Dum, ta dum, ta dum," Sweetums sang tunelessly, not seeming to mind his voice reverberating so strongly off the arched walls that bits of the ceiling crumbled down around them.

Ducking a large piece of fossilized junk tumbling past, Newsie hissed, "Sweetums! Please be quiet!"

Baffled, the troll blinked at him, pausing mid-step. "Why? Are we hunting rabbits?"

"We're hunting secrets," Rhonda told him, panning her camera around. "Much more dangerous."

"And it would be nice to have our heads undamaged," Newsie muttered. His light caught something gleaming between the tracks ahead. "Uh...do you guys see that?"

"Yeah," Rhonda replied, training the lens on it. "It looks like...it can't be!"

"What? What?" Newsie hung back, but Rhonda swung down from Sweetums' shoulder, camera trained on the object which sparkled and flashed in their lights. Newsie finally saw what blocked their progress. "It's a...jar of gumballs?"

"Yeek!" Rhonda cried, leaping backwards nimbly to end up just behind Newsie. Frightened, Newsie shone his light directly at the large, startlingly sparkly-clean jar...and realized those round things were not exactly gumballs.

"Oh frog," he choked, feeling ill. He averted his gaze immediately. Sweetums lumbered up to the jar, bent over to study it, and picked it up. "S-Sweetums, don't touch tha—"

"It's only a jar of candied eyeballs!" Sweetums protested, opening the jar and tossing one of the dubious treats into the air to catch it in his broad mouth. "Aw, rats! Lemon flavor... Oh, well." With a heavy sigh, he took another step along the tunnel.

None of them saw the tripwire triggered by the jar. Suddenly an eight-foot troll was wobbling unsteadily right in front of Newsie; he threw himself to one side, rolling painfully onto the filthy tracks, Rhonda squeaking and bolting for the side of the tunnel. "Whooaa-ohh!" Sweetums yelled, crashing down, flattening the picnic hamper; hordes of screeching bugs fled in all directions. Dazed, Newsie felt briefly thankful the bugs weren't sticking around, until he saw why...and it had nothing to do with the troll in their party. Huge shadows loomed, closing fast, rising to the very ceiling of the tunnel...and an eerie moaning arose, echoing horribly off every curving wall so that he couldn't tell where it originated. "Dooooom! Doooooooom to aaaallll intruuuuders!"

"Aaagh!" Newsie yelped, trying to get to his feet, but his coat snagged on a chunk of broken rail. Rhonda pointed the camera at the shadows.

"Remember that bit about you running home if we found anything awful?" she shouted. _"Now_ would be a good time for that!"

"Ow, ow, ow!" Sweetums hoisted himself to his feet, hands pressed to his back. "Hey, that hurt!" He gestured angrily at the advancing shadows, growing larger by the second across the walls. "Whadda you guys got against trolls, anyway? And what's the big idea only settin' out lemon flavor eyeballs?"

"Don't say eyeballs," Rhonda groaned, huddling close to Newsie, still pointing the camera ahead at the approaching menace.

The shadows groaned, wavering over the ceiling and creeping closer along the ground. "Leeeeave...leeeave or staaay foreverrrrrr!"

"Rhonda, help!" Newsie gasped, tugging frantically at his coat-hem. The rat yanked the coat open, startling him. "Hey!"

 _"Leave it,_ genius! Let's book!"

He managed to pull his arms out of the sleeves, and staggered to unsteady feet, but by that time the shadows were upon them. Hearing a tapping noise along the rails, Rhonda shone her light there, just in front of Sweetums, and saw...three pairs of tennis shoes and spindly legs in stripey socks. Sweetums' eyes widened. "Wha-! Stripey socks? Oh no – _Pesties! Waaaauuugh!"_

Rhonda and Newsie called out to him, but the troll panicked, breaking into a pounding run back toward the abandoned hotel station. A bright blue light made the rat and the reporter wince. Shaking, Newsie shone his flashlight up from the advancing stripey socks still revealed by Rhonda's tiny beam, and saw three squat bodies, three pairs of skinny arms with tiny claws; moving up, he saw six more arms upraised and swaying menacingly, three tiny heads with bobbing antennae...

"They're...bugs?" Rhonda asked incredulously. She stood up, stepping from behind Newsie to stare at the creatures halting just a few paces away. "They're _tiny_ bugs! Oh for crying out loud!"

"They're...what?" Newsie blinked, trying to see clearly against the spotlight just behind the creatures, but he could tell they were indeed fairly small.

"Turn that thing off, you little creeps!" Rhonda snapped.

The things looked at one another. One on the end continued to moan, "Wooo _oooo_ oooh! Tuuuurn baaack!"

"Geez, Howie, can it," another grumbled. "They ain't buyin' it."

The moaning one sighed, tiny shoulders slumping, and turned off the large lamp mounted on a rolling platform. The middle creature groaned, letting drop the rope he'd been hauling, dragging the moving light behind them to cast the eerie shadows. Rhonda set her paws on her hips, whiskers twitching in disgust. "A Kleig light? Seriously? What the heck do you power that thing with?"

"We gotta extension cord," one of the things mumbled, looking defensive. "A really _long_ extension cord."

Calming somewhat, Newsie stared at them. They resembled insects, but with round faces, fat cheeks, and downturned mouths. Each was dressed in a different jacket, and one sported an Islanders cap, but all wore stripey socks on their long lower legs. "What the heck are you?" he wondered aloud.

"Hah! Looka him!" scoffed the one in the cap. "Is he deaf, or just stupid?"

"Shoulda listened to the troll," another snickered.

"You're...you're Pesties?" Newsie asked.

The bugs stood up proud and straight. "Dat's us!"

The bugs were the same size as Rhonda, and seemed sheepish now that their shadow illusion had been destroyed. She looked at all three of them, then suddenly thwapped the center one atop his head with the paw not holding the camera. "You idiots! A tripwire? A jar of...of... _things?"_

"I thought up the eyeballs," the Pestie on the left offered. The center one recovered from his smackdown and glared at Rhonda.

"Yeah, well, it's not like we used real ones! We figured they'd either scare people off, or catch 'em in our trap! Anyway, we hadda do _something!_ Those danged monsters wouldn't leave us alone otherwise!"

"Yeah, and now you mooks gotta come down here wit' your camera and ruin everything!"

"Yeah, _please_ don't post that online," the third one begged. "Dis is our home, and dose monsters won't let us stay if dey know we're not...uh...we're really...um..."

"Tiny little bugs in stripey socks?" Newsie asked.

The Pesties glanced at one another. "Uh...who you callin' tiny?" the center one bristled, antennae twanging.

Rhonda shook her head. "I'm gonna go fetch our troll, if he hasn't run all the way back to the theatre by now." Hoisting the camera, she stomped back the way they'd come. Newsie hoped the other, less friendly bugs wouldn't bother her. One of the Pesties looked him up and down, head cocked sideways.

"So whaddayou doin' down here anyway, bub?"

"Er, well...I'm...I'm actually investigating a secret monster television production studio which I believe is somewhere underground, and –"

"Oh, sheez. Like _dat's_ a big secret," the second Pestie grumbled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, like, get with the program, mac," the first added. "Everybody knows where dat is!"

"What?" Shocked, Newsie took a moment to find words, and then to move them out of his mouth. "Er...uh...you...you know how to get into MMN?"

"Sure, but why would ya _want_ to?"

"Yeah, dat place is crawlin' wit' creeps! Buddy, they'd snap you up for a snack before you could say 'cool beans'!"

The center one glared at the third one. "Dude. _Nobody_ still says 'cool beans.'"

"Well, _I_ do!"

They started to argue. Newsie broke in: "Wait, wait! Can you tell me how to get to..."

"Oh noooo way. I ain't dealin' wit' dat red furry guy again," the center Pestie groaned.

"Tell me about it! First it's all 'yayy Huxley,' den it's 'yayy Grouches,' and next thing ya know the calls stop comin', and even our agent drops us widdout a' explanation, an—"

"Stop, stop!" Newsie shouted, and again they shut up but glared nastily. Trying to think past his excitement, Newsie pinched the bridge of his nose, resettled his glasses, and tried again, "I need to know how to get into MMN! It's a matter of extreme importance, not just to me, but to everyone in this city!"

Voices sounded along the tunnel; Newsie whirled, bringing his light up, then relaxed, heart stuttering, when he saw it was Rhonda prodding Sweetums back this direction. "Ow, that was my ear!" the troll complained. "Uh...you're sure they're not really Pesties?"

"Umm...call it a case of mistaken identity," Rhonda assured him. "They won't bite."

"Well, okay," Sweetums rumbled uncertainly. "But can we get ice cream after this?"

"Sure, big guy. Whatever ya want."

"Haw haw haw. She called me 'big'," Sweetums mumbled, blushing.

"Will you show me how to get into the MMN studios?" Newsie asked the Pesties.

They looked at each other. The center one shrugged. "Guess so. Your funeral."

Eagerly Newsie followed the grumbling bugs as they turned and trudged along the tunnel for several minutes. A section ahead had partially collapsed, and a heap of broken tiles and crumbling bricks blocked most of the tunnel. The Pesties grew visibly nervous. "Stop right there, Ricky. Okay, bub, this is as far as we take ya," one of them said. "We usually slip through that hole over there to the J line when we go out, but if ya go past the wreckpile instead, you'll see a big hole on the right. That leads right into the studio tunnels..."

"But you'll never get in," another Pestie said, shaking its tiny head.

"Oh they'll get in all right, but they'll never get out again!" the first one chortled. "Only monsters allowed!"

"Newsie, maybe we should come back with more ammo," Rhonda suggested.

"Or..." He looked up at Sweetums, who towered to almost thrice his Muppet height. "We could send in a monster."

"Hmm. Hold on, I got an idea," Rhonda said. She clambered into Sweetums' shaggy fur, working her way with dainty grunts to the center, where she slapped the videocamera against his chest. "Hold that there a sec while I tie it up," she commanded the troll. Baffled, he obeyed, watching as the rat carefully wove and knotted his fur around the camera to hold it in place and then brushed a lock of fur over the lens. "Okay, soon as you're past whatever security they have, uncover the lens and film all you can!"

"Rhonda, that's brilliant," Newsie approved. "Sweetums...can you...can you try to find my cousin? Here..." He dug one of the photocopied photos of Chester from his wallet. "This is him. He goes by Snookie, I think. He hosts some of their game shows."

Sweetums blinked at the picture. "How'm I gonna find him?"

"Maybe...maybe tell the monsters you're a fan, and you want to get his autograph?" Newsie offered, thinking of the piece of clay with his cousin's signature.

"Get as much of the layout of the place as you can," Rhonda told the troll.

"Tell Chester I'm going to rescue him," Newsie instructed Sweetums. "Tell him I'm his cousin by his Aunt Florabeth!"

"Do _not_ tick any of 'em off," Rhonda continued; an increasingly confused troll looked from the rat bossing him on the one hand to the Muppet beseeching him on the other. "Remember, these guys may look fine to you, but they're up to something really, really bad! Don't let them talk you into staying!"

"He might not know me; I don't know if we ever even met as children," Newsie continued. He dug out another photo, one of the wallet-sized pics he carried everywhere of himself and Gina. "Here, give him this! Tell him his cousin Aloysius has been trying to find him for months, and I won't let him languish in a place filled with monsters!"

"And make sure not to –" Rhonda said, but Sweetums roared, shaking his head in frustration.

 _"Cut it out!"_ Fuming, he glared at their startled faces. "How'm I supposed to remember all that stuff? I thought we were going on a picnic!"

"We'll...we'll make it up to you," Newsie said, trying to keep the trembling out of his voice. A troll was big and scary enough; an _angry_ troll...

"Ice cream?" Rhonda suggested, giving him a hopeful smile. "Any flavor you want! Our treat!"

"How come da big lug gets ice cream?" Howie Pestie wondered, pouting. _"We're_ da guys what showed 'em where ta go!"

"Fine, fine, ice cream for everyone," Newsie said hurriedly. "But please, Sweetums, this is really important! We need to know what's inside this production company, and where my cousin is being held! Just...film whatever you can. _Anything_ might wind up being useful, okay?"

"Wellll...okay," Sweetums rumbled. He touched the camera gently with one huge fingertip. "I, uh, I don't have to bench-focus or do a white-balance on it, right? 'Cause I always have trouble with those; everyone says my film comes out too yellow."

"Er," Rhonda choked, startled.

"No, just let it run...just remember not to let the monsters see the camera," Newsie said, too worried to wonder how the troll knew anything about camerawork. "Will you do this for us? Please? It would...it would mean a lot to me, especially."

Sweetums stared at him a moment, then chuckled and patted him on the head. Newsie gulped, bracing his feet, and managed to stay upright. "Aw, sure. Your News Flashes always make me laugh! I guess I can walk around and film stuff for ya."

"Thank you," Newsie mumbled, trying to fix his hair. "Uh...and my cousin. Snookie Blyer is the name he goes by; try to get my photo to him – wait, here." He took out his trusty pencil stub and wrote a brief note on the back of his picture. "Try to get this to him, but if you can't, just see if you can find out where they have him."

"And we need to know what the –" Rhonda began, but Newsie nudged her sharply, nearly tumbling her over.

"Thanks, Sweetums. We'll wait right here for you," Newsie said.

"You did _not_ just do that," Rhonda growled.

Sweetums nodded, and strolled over to the debris pile, tossing chunks out of his way to go around unhindered. They heard him greeting someone: "Hey! How's it goin'? Any good bugs lately?"

"Oh, was that _you_ I heard roarin'?" a gruff voice replied. "You...you didn't run into any Pesties, did ya?"

"Oh, uh...naw, naw. Just stubbed my toe," Sweetums said.

"Oh...good. Those Pesties give me the creeps. Ya know, they say they can suck the breath out of you while ya sleep! Yeesh...well, come on in, ya shaggy lump, haw haw haw!"

Newsie let out the breath he'd been holding. He attempted to dust off a large chunk of bricks and sat upon it, checking his watch with his flashlight. "I hope this won't be a long wait. How much time do you think we should give him?"

He jerked, startled, when Rhonda hopped up on his knee. She scowled and brushed back her hair. "Don't get any funny ideas, sunshine. I just don't want to get my new dress dirty...not that it's a particularly _expensive_ one..." She shrugged, settling uncomfortably. "Who knows? But we need that footage! I'm hoping to post the Nofrisko stuff online today, but being able to call it 'Part One of an In-Depth Investigative Report' would be fantastic."

"I hope we can at least find out how to sneak in there so we can expose whatever it is they're planning," Newsie muttered.

"I hope we actually get the ice cream we were promised," grumbled Ricky Pestie.

A spectral figure slipped unseen through the warren of cells beneath the Ars Moribunda Studios, frowning at what he saw: almost every rough-hewn rock cubicle with iron bars seemed to be occupied. He saw a few Whatnots, a few cute furry creatures, and most disturbingly, human women; Deadly watched from a bend in the corridor while two large, toothy Frackles forced one of the young women to put on a fancy evening gown and a string of pearls. _Good heavens, what is this? This had better not be what it looks like, or I'll –_

"Come on, come on, hurry up," the green Frackle with bushy black eyebrows yawned, checking his watch. "You wanna be the featured girlfriend tonight, don't you? We don't let just _anyone_ onto _'I Married a Monster'_ , you know!"

"Please, please let me go," the woman begged. "Look, I don't want to be on any TV show, I just want to go home, please!"

"Hey JC, I think she needs more motivation," the pink Frackle with a buzzardlike nose snickered.

The green one sighed. "Look, I don't have time for this! You have been selected out of literally thousands of potential monster-girls to be on the newest, hippest, most popular _'Bachelor'_ style monster show! Let's hustle! Come on, work it, girl! The monster at the end of the show is only gonna pick _one_ of you!"

The young woman cried as she was dragged from the cell, "But I don't want to marry a monster! _I'm_ not a monster!"

"Oh, don't worry," JC assured her as they led her off. "We'll take care of that for you. Would you like to be green, blue, or orange?"

Deadly shook his head, grimacing. Whatever was going on here, it was stranger than any convention of spooks he'd ever attended... _Even that one back in 'ninety-six where they stuffed Thog into a pool full of lime Jell-o._ He turned a corner into the next cell block, and swiftly melted into the shadows when a thundering figure stomped into view, led by a far shorter monster which seemed to be mostly wild hair. "So's this guy's your favorite host, huh? I kinda like him myself. That bit last night on Carl where he got regurgitated by Big Mama was _hilarious!"_

"Uh...sure!" a deep and rumbling voice agreed, and Deadly almost gave away his cover, popping his head forward in astonishment: he knew that voice!

The monster led Sweetums right to a cell where a forlorn pale yellow Muppet sat on a plain concrete bunk. "Hey Snookie. Ya got a fan come ta see ya!"

"I'm busy," the Muppet answered, continuing to simply sit with his head down.

"Get up before I bring the naked biting mole rats on sticks in here," the hairy monster snarled. "Be nice to your fans!"

With a sigh, Snookie rose and looked up...and up. He swallowed at the sight of the enormous troll peering curiously at him; the troll seemed to be studying his face closely. "There ya go. He's not allowed out 'til the next show taping in ten minutes. You're lucky to even catch him down here; he's been busy every day this past week!"

"Uh...hi!" the troll boomed, wedging his massive hand against the bars. "Pleased ta meet ya! I'm Sweetums!"

"...Right," Snookie said, stepping no closer to the bars. "What...what exactly is it you want?"

"Oh! Uh..." The troll scratched his head, then perked. "Oh! Could you, uh, sign an autograph for me?"

 _"Huge_ fan," the monster added.

Snookie nodded. "Yeah. I see that." Reluctantly he came to the edge of the bars, staring up at the troll, who had to stoop slightly under the rough-carved ceiling. "What did you expect me to write with?"

"Uh...uh...oh. I didn't bring a pen..."

The hairy monster shrugged. "Eh, I'll go get ya one. Hang on. Don't eat him while I'm gone, okay? The boss would be mad."

Sweetums nodded, and the monster trotted off. As soon as he was out of sight, Sweetums leaned over and said in his quietest rumble, "I got a message for you!"

"Here's one for you," Snookie muttered, caught in the whoosh of breath from the troll's big mouth. "Floss much?"

His disdain turned to surprise when the troll shoved a small piece of paper through the bars. "Here! This is from your cousin!"

"My...?" Snookie accepted the paper; it was a photograph of a yellow, long-faced Muppet in a brown plaid sports coat, smiling as he held onto a lovely, dark-haired, tall young woman with amazing cheekbones. "Who...?"

The monster returned; instinctively Snookie tucked the photo into his pocket. "One pen. Here ya go."

"Uh...great!" Realizing he didn't have any paper, Sweetums thought a moment, then reached into a pocket of his torn workpants and pulled out a half-crushed but still-wriggling beetle. "Here! Could ya make it out 'to my biggest fan'?"

Snookie winced, but with the guard right there giving him the evil eye, he tried his best to sign the back of the bug without actually touching it. "Haw haw haw! Thanks!" Sweetums bellowed. Nodding, the guard monster tugged his arm.

"Great, great. Hey listen, it's wonderful you finally came by. Someone wants to talk to you about, uh, how you could maybe help us out. Why doncha come downstairs, and we can have us a little chit-chat?"

"Uh, okay! But I can't stay long; I'm meeting some friends for ice cream," Sweetums said, frowning.

"Oh sure, sure! This'll only take a sec." The monster threw a nasty look at Snookie as they left. "You behave. Someone'll come get you in a couple minutes. You're due on set for _'Swift Wits'_."

Snookie, for once, made no reply, waiting tensely until the monsters' voices faded down the corridor. Then he unfolded the photograph and stared at it. _My...my cousin? Well that's certainly not Jethro or Mikey or Maryann...who the heck?_ Turning over the picture, he saw the note hastily but neatly writ on the back: _"Been looking for you for months; didn't know about you 'til recently or I would have come sooner! Your father was my mother Florabeth's brother. Hang on, help is on the way. –Aloysius Crimp."_

Stunned, Snookie dropped onto his bunk, ignoring the dull pain this sent up his rear. _Florabeth..._ Vaguely, he could recall his father having mentioned that sister, some sort of black sheep type who'd gone to New York and had a whirlwind marriage to a sailor. He'd never heard of another cousin from that side of the family! And yet... He looked at the photo again. There did seem to be something of a family resemblance. _He has Grampa's nose...poor sap. Holy frog. This has to be for real!_ Trembling, he kept turning the picture over and over, staring at the unknown Muppet and then rereading the note. _Who's the chick? She's cute...wonder what she sees in him. Wow. Guess things really HAVE changed aboveground...a Muppet dating someone with no felt!_ He shook his head in wonder; his parents would have been horrified at the very thought. Snookie himself rejected that sort of bigotry, but even so, he found it hard to accept that this sort of pairing was acceptable to society at large... _Well, you've been down here a long time. They say even Trump has admirers these days, so who knows what's possible?_ Hearing approaching footpads, he tucked the photo under his shirt. His mind kept playing the note over and over as he walked escorted to the next studio of the day, outwardly silent, inwardly in turmoil. _He's coming to find me? How? Those guys'd eat him in a flat second if he tried! But...if he has a troll friend...a Muppet friends with a troll?_ Once again, he shook his head in wonder. "Holy flying frog, what's the world coming to?" he muttered.

"Huh...haven't you heard, dude? The freaks will inherit the earth!" one of his guards jibed, and the other burst into laughter so harsh Snookie winced, and would have covered his ears had his arms not been restrained.

Deadly paid little attention to them, instead slinking after Sweetums. _One of the Muppet monsters paying a visit to the show host, and giving him some sort of contraband...the others telling the troll he can help them with something...what under earth is going on down here?_ With a thrash of his tail, the dragon easily tracked his quarry by the smell of bugs and onions, heading for the next level down, still full of questions and feeling more unpleasant by the minute.


	35. Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. _In which the blandest awards ceremony ever is contracted; Deadly is outdone by a monster rant; and the Newsman receives a shock._

The sounds of whining power drills driving home screws, shouts and footsteps clanging from the grid, and heavy metal by Nine Inch Snails nearly overwhelming all else were familiar, even comforting sounds to Gina. She only looked up from her task of attaching loose-pin hinges to a series of flats when someone tapped her elbow. She pulled her finger off the trigger of her Makita, looking back – and then down, and finally saw the orange, lugubrious-looking Whatnot standing beside her. "Oh, uh, hi," she yelled over the pounding music. "Can I help you?"

"Abernathy Bland," the blue-haired Whatnot announced. He frowned up at the noise. "Could you turn that off?"

Gina waved her arms at the light booth until one of the other techies noticed. Gina yelled, pointed at the speakers, and made "cut" motions until the new electrician understood and turned down the sound. Gina looked back at the Whatnot. "Hi. Something I can help you with?" she asked. While people generally didn't wander into tech builds in the middle of the day at the small theatre, it wasn't unheard of, so she tried to be polite. A few other techies were stopping work and looking on, curious.

"I'm here to discuss the awards ceremony set-up with your production coordinator," Bland said, removing a fat sheaf of papers from a briefcase.

"Awards...? Oh. The thing this weekend?" Gina asked, and the skinny orange Whatnot nodded. He glanced around at the other workers with what might have been distaste, or merely bafflement.

"Whom should I speak to about the lighting and sound and the stage set-up?"

Gina shot a look across the room at the theatre's technical manager, Mike, who suddenly seemed to be very busy with part of a platform. "Hey, Mike?" Gina called. "There's someone here to discuss the awards thing coming up. The theatre rental. Weren't you coordinating –"

The portly, bearded man in painter's overalls wiped his hands on his seat and waved dismissively. "Uh, nope, that one's all yours! You know the upcoming build schedule better than I do; you'd be better at figuring out what needs to go where! Besides, uh, my kids have a dance recital that night. Can't do it." Flashing a grin at her, her boss sauntered towards the green room. "Hey, anyone else feel like a break?"

Gina glared after the rest of them as the space quickly emptied. She turned back to the lawyer. "I guess you're talking with me, Mr Bland." She studied him a moment as he nodded and looked around for someplace to set all his paperwork. "Um, you can spread your stuff out on that platform behind you. Are you...are you with that Muppet law firm?"

"Ah yes! You've heard of us," Bland smiled, though it faded immediately as he realized a thin layer of sawdust coated the platform. He whisked off a spot with a pristine handkerchief, looking regretful at having to dirty it.

"You guys are handling Newsie's discrimination case against KRAK."

"Oh! You know the Muppet Newsman?" Gingerly, Bland seated himself on the edge of the elevated plywood. Gina dropped onto it a couple of feet away, ignoring the dustcloud she sent wafting toward the lights.

"He's my...my partner," Gina explained. She never knew how to refer to her beloved to other people; _boyfriend_ seemed inadequate, and _lover_ too clinical somehow, and _love of my life_ too intimate for situations like this. "My...significant Muppet."

"Ah. I see. Well, Miss..."

"Broucek."

"Actually, if that's the case, my partner – _law_ partner – Mr Blander is handling the Newsman's case, so you'd have to ask _him_ any details concerning its status. Shall we take a look at the stage plans my administrative assistant drew up?"

"Sure," Gina replied, a little put off by the lawyer's careful neutrality. His stony expression when she'd explained what Newsie meant to her made her wonder whether the Whatnot personally disapproved of a Muppet being involved with a non-felted woman. _I guess reverse discrimination isn't covered by their tolerance campaign._ "What were you guys wanting?"

"Well, no doubt you've heard we are renting your little hall here for the entire evening of the twenty-ninth, from four p.m. until midnight. There will be a formal dinner, which we've arranged for Johnny Fiama's Pasta Kitchen-Without-No-More-Plays to cater, so we'll of course need space for them to set up their warming ovens. You _do_ use two-hundred-twenty volt outlets? Good. The tables ought to be set up _here,_ here, here, and _there;_ and perhaps these platforms might serve for the awards stage, assuming you can paint them bright gold, as befits –"

"Wait, hold on," Gina interrupted, pulling the precisely-sketched diagram away from the Muppet to study it, looking from it to the actual stage space of the black-box theatre they sat in. "Uh, okay, we could pull up some of the masking curtains in the wing for the caterers to set up, I guess; and yeah, there should be room for you to set up tables along the front here; we can just move back the audience platforms, but –"

"Oh no, no; perhaps your employer hasn't made our needs clear beforehand," Bland said, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking slowly. _"Your_ staff must have the tables set and ready for us at four o'clock Saturday."

"Mr Bland, we're not a party rental service. You bring your own tables."

"Oh...I see," Bland muttered, frowning. "Well, that's a little less than we were expecting for what you're charging."

"We don't have buffet tables, Mr Bland. We _do_ have an assortment of prop furniture in storage, but I'm guessing you weren't really wanting a cast-iron ice-cream-parlor table next to a midcentury modern coffee table." Gina frowned right back, inwardly cursing Mike. She had enough to deal with, trying to get the build for two separate shows done in the next few days so that rehearsals for both could begin while paint and lighting commenced immediately after Halloween! Just because she was serving as tech director and designer for next month's shows didn't mean she had time or patience to take on this kind of silly customer service! She pushed the floorplan back at Bland. "Tell you what. If you get the tables here by four, I'll have a couple of our guys _help_ your guys set 'em up. Now, the platforms: yes you can use them, but there won't be time to paint them gold or anything else. I suggest you bring a couple of dropcloths to drape over them. We have some you can use, but they're all grey. Now if that's acceptable, we can have those in place by Saturday."

"Grey? But this is an awards ceremony for our biggest MADL donors!"

 _Oh, wonderful,_ Gina thought. Newsie had told her of his run-ins at the Occupy camp with some of the MADL reps. _Lucky him; he'll be at his theatre that night for the usual show._ "Well, Mr Bland," she sighed, "This is really short notice. Your choices are: let us put down some plain cloths for you, or bring your own, or leave the stage platforms bare wood." She thumped the one they sat on for emphasis. Bland looked glumly at it, then shrugged.

"Very well...grey. We needn't spend too much on overhead, you understand, Ms Broucek, since this is supposed to be a fundraiser as much as a ceremony to recognize those Muppets who've contributed the most to the cause this year. Ahem." He checked his rider – _no, list of demands,_ Gina corrected herself, suppressing a smile. "Now, as to music..."

The negotiations continued another hour; work resumed around them, although people tried to drill or hammer quietly. Gina ignored the noise; this was work which _needed_ to proceed to make their production schedule, and the stuffy lawyer could just suck it up and deal. Bland, though discomfited, went through every item on his long list of requirements. Finally he repacked his briefcase, and handed Gina a duplicate copy of the list and the groundplan. Gina sat adding up the number of employees they'd absolutely need, thinking that as much as he obviously wished non-involvement, Mike was still going to have to approve all of this and pick the crew to work that night. "Okay...so this is a four-person crew, _minimum._ You do realize most of our crew are IATSE, right?"

"They're what?"

"Theatre techies' union. Which means certain pay rates are going to be in effect."

"Oh," Bland said, twitching his thick mustache with well-groomed felt fingers. "Well. Perhaps some of our members could volunteer instead..."

"They can usher if they want. That's about it." Gina stood, retying her hair back with a skull-bejeweled scrunchie, enjoying the uneasy look on the Whatnot's face. "Sorry. Rules and laws and so on. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Bland murmured. "Well...perhaps we don't really _need_ a spotlight..."

"I'm sure the awards will be just as impressive without it."

"Very well. Please finalize the crew list today so we can make identification badges for them. We wouldn't want any of the _wrong_ element sneaking in to disrupt the festivities, you see," Bland said, unaffected by Gina's look of surprise.

 _"_ _Today?_ Mr Bland, that may be impossible; my supervisor will have to be the one to organize that, and as you can see he's very bus..." Gina looked around to see absolutely no sign of Mike. She let out a harsh sigh. "Nowhere to be found, probably went home. Look, we'll send you a personnel list as soon as we can, all right?"

"Very well," Bland sniffed. "I'm prepared to be lenient. After all, I understand the non-felted are often not quite as efficient or speedy as we are. That's perfectly understandable, given your slower metabolisms."

Gina gave him an incredulous look, then shook her head, biting her tongue. _Good lord. Wait'll Newsie hears all this. He might want to go to a different law firm!_ "We'll be in touch, Mr Bland. Um, when you see your partner, would you please tell him _my_ live-in, very much _felted and efficient_ partner would like to speak with him as soon as he has some information about Newsie's case?"

Bland, already five steps away, paused and looked back. "Er...I assumed he was already working closely with the Newsman?"

"Uh, we haven't heard from him since the party this past Saturday."

"But..." Bland suddenly appeared something other than haughty or bored: he looked worried. "I...I haven't heard from him in days either! I assumed he must be busy with that case...he hasn't even checked into the office."

"I don't know _where_ he is," Gina said, annoyed. "He didn't ride back home with us. I had the distinct impression he had something against rats. Or maybe you _both_ have something against non-Muppets, period."

"I am _sure_ you're not accusing the prestigious firm of Bland and Blander of anything like species discrimination," the Whatnot muttered low. He shook his head. "I'll...I'll see if perhaps his assistant can track him down. I know he was very excited about the Newsman's case; it stands to be a groundbreaker. And for the record, Ms Broucek: we at Bland and Blander support _every_ Muppet's right to pursue the lifestyle they wish...even those who seem to favor, ahem, more _untraditional_ ones. Good day."

 _What is this, Nineteen-sixty? I bet they only recently removed the water fountain in their office labeled 'nonfelted only',_ Gina thought, shaking her head in amazed contempt. She glared around at the techies giving her frankly curious stares. "Allll right, nothing to see here, move it along," she yelled at them in her best faux brogue. A few of them chuckled, and most bent back to their tasks of building platforms, stretching flats, or rigging backdrop canvases. However, as Gina resumed the project she'd been tackling before the lawyer dropped by, she wondered, _Who DID Blander ride back to the city with, anyway?_ She thought hard about Fozzie's party; she vaguely remembered the blue Whatnot in his silly bird costume hanging around the dinner buffet boring a group of chickens with a discourse on better benefits for feathered creatures under a new Muppet-animal agreement before the state legislature...but was he at the bonfire? Where had he bunked in the farmhouse? _Was he even there at that point? Did anyone else leave early?_ _I thought maybe he rode with Sam, they seemed to hit it off...but why hasn't he called Newsie since then? Why hasn't he talked to his own office?_

The scent of fresh sawdust, never a favorite of hers, but something she regarded as a necessary evil for work around here, didn't perturb her as much as the growing recognition of something much fouler smelling about the whole situation.

Uncle Deadly moved silent and unseen through the rough-hewn corridors far below the Chinatown streets, all he observed proving more strange than enlightening thus far. He'd watched an angry-seeming, birdlike monster with pink wings growling unintelligibly as it hosted something about monsters driving big rigs from coast to coast. He'd listened in on a meeting between a long-snouted doglike reptile and a group of frightened-seeming Frackles, concerning whom might be taking over host duties for some of the other employees after what they kept referring to as "Dark Ascension Night"; the Frackles' enthusiasm for the proposed assignments seemed to Deadly to be rather forced, but the doglizard thing appeared satisfied. And now, as he moved slowly through the shadows, a canned growl throughout the corridors from some sort of public address system announced, "Monster Rally in the Great Hall in five minutes! Everyone assemble for the Rally! Secure all hosts and contestants in holding cells for the duration of the Rally!"

 _What the blazes is that?_ Deadly wondered. He'd seen, and felt rather disturbed by, the holding cells on the level above this one and below the show-taping studios. Since when did respectable fiends lock up Muppets, Whatnots, cute furry animals, and even young women? Certainly, he'd carted off a squealing soprano or three in his day...it was the natural impulse of every virile young monster to do so, preferably while laughing maniacally, but one always allowed them to go free once they passed out. It was the _getting,_ not the _having,_ wherein lay the sport of it! Why these monsters would _cage_ anyone was beyond Deadly's ken... _Perhaps this 'Rally' will address the issue? Perhaps they'll have hot dogs and cheerleaders, too...hmm. Worth a look, I suppose._ He watched a number of monsters of all ilk hurrying along an adjacent tunnel, and fell in behind them, certain that his dragonly good looks would protect him from discovery.

Everyone hastened into an enormous cave dripping with ragged stalactites and reeking of wet, unwashed fur and things left too long mouldering in dark corners. Deadly breathed deeply, pleased at the overall atmosphere. "This is delightful," he murmured to himself, as he took up a perch behind a stumpy, broken stalagmite in a niche near the back. "I wonder if I could persuade the frog to build me something like, perhaps just off that basement hallway..."

"Issss everyone here?" that same lizardy canine thing shouted over the rumble and growl of hundreds of monsters jostling for the few actual seats in the cavern. "Attention, all of you wormsss! Your mossst disssgussting lord and massster ssspeaksss!"

 _"_ _That_ crawling, flea-bitten blackguard is their leader?" Deadly asked, surprised.

A small orange Frackle with so many teeth it couldn't close its mouth all the way muttered at him, "Mo, foopid! Daf fuft da boffef wight-hand monfah!" It nodded in awe at the enormous flatscreen which winked into life at the far end of the cavern, where two red beams of eyeballs shot out from the darkness which shifted and settled. _"Daf_ da boff!" The Frackle quieted immediately; a hush fell over all the assemblage.

"My dear little minions," a deep, flowing voice crooned, amplified so that it reverberated painfully off the cave formations; one of the smaller stalactites fell to the floor with a high tinkling sound. "We now have only six more nights before the event which you all await with baited breath...and some with actual bait," the voice chuckled, "The Grand Dark Ascension! It is meet that at this time we take a moment to reflect upon what this will mean for us all...

"It means no more sunshine," the voice continued; a happy murmur rose and subsided in the crowd. Every monster, Deadly noticed, from a giant furry bulk which made Sweetums look tiny to a darting yellow mosquito-thing with teeth, trembled and shied away from those lasers of red light sweeping the audience from the screen, even though all of them hung eagerly on every word. "It means no more blue skies, only black clouds, and howling wind, and driving rain, and grime spread through the city streets evermore! It means the end of all happiness for all the men and Muppets living above us, insensitive to our needs, _our_ wishes, _our_ appetites! It means all the screams and shrieks and sobbing in terror you could ever wish to season your prey before you gulp it down still kicking and flailing!"

Deadly looked around, startled, at the yells and growls of approval which went up at that pronouncement. _What the Saint Olivier is all this?_ Concerned, he drew back behind the lump of calcium carbonate sheltering him as the whole room trembled. Several more pointed daggers of stone crashed to the floor; the yelps and squeaks of those caught under the missiles went largely unregarded in the general roar.

"Yes, my fellow denizens of the deep, my brotherly bugbears and sisterly spiderkin! Yes! Oh, you cannot with your tiny brains even _imagine_ the glory which awaits _us,_ the _true_ inheritors of the earth, when we have finally subjugated the _nice,_ the _good,_ the _cute_ and the _happy_ morons who traipse streets above us which rightfully should be _ours!_ When I am arrayed in my full might and power, I will return to the world above which so mocked and scorned me, and I shall open wide the sewers and the drains for _all_ of you, and the city will fall into a _darkness_ and bleakness so profound as to know no end, no relief – a darkness, my horrible ones, brought about by _your_ teeth, _your_ claws, _your_ halitosis!" The monsters roared loudly, and another few dozen stalactites crashed. On the giant screen, darkness moved in darkness, and the outline of heavy hands upraised in fervent joy could barely be seen as those red eyes roved the room.

"Obey me, all of you, and reap the reward of your loyalty – I shall give you more frightened little people than you could eat in fifty years! This city has millions of foolish creatures, my frightening children, _millions_ of soft bodies to swallow, millions of flittering little hearts to beat in terror as you chase them through the endless maze of buildings above! Can you feel their fear? Can you taste their terror, my children? _Can_ you?"

 _"_ _Yeeeeesss!"_ the crowd howled, pounding the floor, leaping and laughing. The rest of the ceiling fell in chunks, and the monsters howled louder, fists upraised. Deadly stared at them, horrified.

 _What absurd nonsense is this? Don't they know that can never happen? What good is terrifying people if it becomes the standard, not the surprise? What fun is a dark corner if there is no sunlight to make people think they can escape? How is this lunatic planning on bringing all this about – or is he only stringing these fools along?_ Deadly shook his head, staying well out of sight, as the monsters continued to cheer. The black figure on the black screen gestured for silence, red eyes sweeping the crowd, and slowly they quieted once more.

"But none of this wondrous change will take place if you do not follow _me,_ my dear dungeon-dwellers! Only _I_ can make this city a paradise for monsters! Remember I am not just your leader, I am the _paragon_ of monsterdom: I am the darkness, I am the one who sees into the hearts of men and Muppets alike and knows how best to terrify them, how to undermine their whole society to bring about this new, horrible era of the Rule of Monsters! Heed not any who say these lesser creatures bleed like us, eat like us, feel like us! They do _not!_ Only the Glorious Monster Race will be permitted to exist in the coming age of supreme darkness! Keep your thoughts pure and focused on this! Allow no doubt in your miniscule brains, no pity for them in your cold little hearts! Only the _true_ monsters will triumph! _Only us!"_ The voice raged, echoes making creatures wince and cringe throughout the room, but then all of them cheered, ragged voices raised in a cacophony of screeches and growls.

"This is madness," Deadly muttered, astonished. The monsters chanted, their voices louder and louder: _Un-der-lord! Un-der-lord!_ "Madness!" Deadly whispered, backing away.

Suddenly those lasers of crimson sliced through him; startled, he looked down at the beams disturbing his ethereal body...and then realized _everyone_ had turned to look as well. "Er, ahh...heh heh...salutations, fellow ghouls!" Deadly said heartily, lifting one hand in a vague wave.

"Does this one not work with the Muppets?" the dark lord murmured. A chill flew through the room. Shivering despite himself, Deadly backed away another step.

"Er...not so much _with_ them," Deadly said. "I haunt the Muppet Theatre, 'tis true; but I assure you, I take much joy in scaring them out of their tiny little wits on a weekly basis..."

"Daidlee? Iz zat you?" Blind Pew cried out, staggering into the clearing rapidly forming around Deadly; no one wanted to appear to be standing next to the phantom dragon right now. _"Mon ami!_ Ah can vouch for him, mah despicable oogliness: Daidlee has always been one _scareee_ monstair!"

"Quite so, old bean, quite so," Deadly murmured, feeling distinctly unwelcome; the crowd edged forward, eyes narrowing, claws glinting in the eerie green glow suffusing the room.

"That remains to be determined," the dark figure on the screen said, its voice low and silky.

"Oh, come on, I can tell by your diction you've done some stage work," Deadly protested. "Haven't you heard of _acting?_ Really, do you think I'd associate with those...those...Muppets? Heh heh...when I so _clearly_ am horns and whiskers _above_ their ilk in talent and sheer charm and presence!" Silence fell; the monsters looked back at the screen for guidance.

"Get him," the voice said simply. Three or four hundred monsters surged at Deadly.

"You fools! Beeeewaaaare!" Deadly cried, spreading the wings of his cloak wide; the leading edge of malfeasants fell back, startled. Deadly bolted. Phantom or no, he didn't like the smell of this anymore. Not one whiff.

He ran, desperately trying to recall which corridors he'd come through, which turns led to what tunnels, wishing he had the ability like some spooks to simply _think_ himself back to his final resting-place. He remembered to vanish, but then tripped over an abandoned cart of spider eggs in a dark tunnel, and shouts of pursuit began to catch up to him. Suddenly he emerged through a jagged great hole in a wall into a brick-lined tunnel, some vestige of the first subways from the turn of the last century. He leaped forward, intending to jump a gap in the floor – and crashed back down, stunned, in a heap of tattered eveningwear. He sat up slowly, feeling as though he'd run face-first into an invisible wall, and then heard the soft trickle of water. _Oh NO! You must be joking!_ he thought, staring down in horror at the tiny rivulet of filthy water flowing along the bottom of the floor. Had he been alive, it would have presented absolutely no problem, but being a ghost wasn't _always_ a plus...

 _Running water!_ "Oh, come on, that can't possibly count!" he cried aloud, realized he was visible, and whirled. A crowd of ugly, snarling monsters, fangs bared and compound eyes glittering, poured from the hole in the tunnel wall, advancing on him.

Deadly remembered a story the legendary Phantom of the Opera had told him early one morning while they shared a coffee break during the last film shoot. "The living are gullible, no matter what the species," the Phantom had advised the dragon. "Why, once, when I was cornered in the catacombs of Paris..."

Deadly took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes down to pinpricks of evil green, and built up a truly menacing chuckle. "Mwah ha ha, ha ha ha... _mmmwwooooaaahh ha ha ha ha ha!"_ Raising his cloak high over his head, teeth all exposed in his wide-laughing snout, Deadly took a step toward the crowd. Uncertainly, they fell back. Still laughing crazily, the Phantom of the Muppet Theatre took another step toward them, menacing; and another, and another. Confused, the monsters scrambled back, tripping over one another...until a tiny blue Frackle yelped.

"You guys – anybody got a spectral net? He's only a ghost!"

Although the Frackle was instantly squashed by the misstep of a hefty furred thing with long spiraling horns, the crowd muttered and looked at one another. Deadly paused, his laugh dying in his throat, his eyes flicking from side to side, but he could see no way around the crowd. A monster near the back called out in a low, puzzled voice, "Uh, yeah...I do! But...what good's that?"

"You idiot," a goblin snarled, snatching the filmy silver net from the dullard. He turned back toward Deadly, holding the one item guaranteed to trap a ghost which didn't involve splitting plasma beams. Slowly the goblin grinned.

"Now wait just a—" Deadly said.

The crowd fell on him.

Newsie and Rhonda sat on a mostly-unstuffed sofa in the green room, staring intently at the laptop screen on the wooden bench before them. "I've never seen so many monsters in one place," Newsie muttered nervously.

"Sweetums, what are they all _doing_ down there?" Rhonda asked.

The puzzled troll scratched his head. "Uhhh...makin' TV shows, I guess? They seemed like really nice guys. See there, that guy gave me his hamsterburger! Haw haw haw!" His enormous finger pointed out the intimidated-looking Frackle handing a wriggling thing between sesame-seed buns up to the troll, captured on the hidden camera.

"Eeesh," Newsie shuddered.

"Uh...yeah. I see that. So they, uh, they didn't tell you _why_ they're doing all this?" Rhonda tried again. Newsie stared at the Frackle onscreen, surprised to find he sympathized with the frightened look the small monster was giving the troll.

Sweetums shrugged. "Uh, that one guy, I think his name was Harry, he took me down to some kinda office and asked me to sign somethin'. I told him I, uh, I didn't get that far in kindergarten, though, so he just made an 'X' for me. Somethin' about Santa...no, Klaus...yeah, that was it. Some kinda clause, I think he said; but I didn't understand what that had to do with cons." His eyes widened. "Uh, hey! Aren't cons like _criminals?_ I'm not a criminal!"

"No, big guy, you're not," Rhonda assured him. "A...a confidentiality clause?"

"Yeah! That was it!" Sweetums chuckled and rolled his eyes, abashed. "Huh huh...you called me 'big' again."

"What did they ask you to keep secret?" Newsie asked, looking up, ducking quickly as the troll's huge tongue slurped his triple-dozen-scoop ice cream cone and another scoop of it fell to the floor; this one looked like Rainwater Runoff Ripple. Newsie scooted his laptop a little farther from the corner of the bench where Green Pistachio Goo and Peanut Tarantula made sloppy dissolving puddles.

"Oh! Uh...well if I _told_ you about the monsters taking over the city on Halloween night, it wouldn't be a secret, right?" Sweetums rumbled, happily licking his ice cream cone.

"Yeahh...gotcha," Rhonda said. "Did they say _how?"_

"How what?"

"How they're planning on taking over the city!" Newsie barked, worried. He glanced at his producer, who looked, for once, just as concerned. _I was RIGHT!_ he thought, but this brought him no sense of personal triumph.

"Oh, uh...hey! How'd you guys know about that?" Sweetums demanded, frowning.

"It's okay, Sweetums. You can trust us. We bought ya ice cream, remember?" Rhonda sighed.

"Huh huh...'course I remember! This stuff is great! Hey, uh...can we go on another underground expedition again tomorrow?"

"Er...maybe soon," Newsie offered. "Please, Sweetums, this is really important! _What_ exactly did they say the plan was?" They'd been through the footage thoroughly once already, but in places the troll's fur had clogged the small mic of the camera and garbled the sound.

"Oh, uh...somethin' about, 'elevatin' the dark underlord to Supreme Monsterdom an' sacrificin' all the Muppets who stand in the way of pure unhappiness sweepin' over the city forevermore.'" At the stunned looks on his friends' faces, Sweetums bent over and whispered loudly, "Between you an' me, though, I'm pretty sure he was speakin' semaphorically."

"Erg," Newsie choked, eyes wide.

Rhonda recovered first, and patted the ankle of the shaggy troll. "Uh...okay. Thanks, big guy. Go enjoy your ice cream."

"'Big guy,'" Sweetums rumbled, grinning. With a pleased shake of his head, he lumbered off, a crowd of rats eagerly trailing after him with tiny spoons, scooping up the melting debris in his wake.

"R-rhonda?" Newsie stammered.

"This ain't good," the rat murmured. "All right, look. Let's post this online right away. I'll do a fast edit tying it into the Nofrisko footage and the...the bug-thing. You start working on writing a voiceover, and let's get the word out! At the very least it'll warn people there's something nasty going on!"

"I told you it was all a monsterish plot," Newsie muttered. "I _told_ you!"

"Fine. Have you got all the I-told-you-sos out of your system yet? In case you haven't noticed, this is a serious news story, and we have no broadcast anymore! The best we can hope for is a podcast, which my friend at the _Times_ has reluctantly agreed to link to from their 'Happenings Around Town' page!"

"What?" Newsie started, then scowled. "But this is _serious!_ This isn't some socialite giving a karaoke appearance at an uptown bar, this is a warning about monsters planning the city's total takeover from a secret base under the sewers!"

"You and I know that, but we've lost our journalistic standing," Rhonda griped. "Check your email; I got a notice that Blanke's revoked our press badges!"

"What?" Newsie blanched. "He—he can't do that!"

"Unfortunately, he _can._ You know they only hand those things out to legit reporters working for legit media outlets, and since we're suspended and probably gonna get fired –"

"But this is awful!" Newsie pulled his prized badge from his wallet and stared at it longingly; he'd worked so _hard_ just to earn one of these, the ultimate status symbol for any newsman working in the biggest news center on earth! It was the next best thing to a Pulitzer...well, at least, as close as _he_ was likely to ever get...

"Tell me about it, Sunshine," Rhonda sighed. "Now I'll _never_ find a parking place again! But look; we gotta move on this, and I mean yesterday. So you sequester yourself in your little closet over there or whatever you gotta do to get those journalistic juices flowing in your foam and write me a kick-butt, five-minute V.O. for this story while I get all the film spliced together, okay?"

"O-okay," Newsie gulped, trying to gather his wits. _Halloween night, monsters plan to take over the city? Sacrificing Muppets? Is the theatre safe? We should warn Kermit...cut off the drains completely...post guards...why us? So it's true monsters think we're delicious?_ Shivering, he remembered the pills Dr Honeydew had compounded for him, and dug the bottle out of his coat pocket. The plaid had ripped slightly at one seam when he'd wrested it free of the rusted subway rail finally, but at least he hadn't lost his phone or this... He took one of the capsules, washing it down with a swig of coffee, wincing at the taste. "Gaaahhh...why does this taste like shrimp?"

"Jou say somethin', pointy-head?" Pepe snapped, glaring momentarily as he trotted by with a towel slung around his neck, showing off his new Speedos to the room at large. "Hey, Chef, jou gots my hot tub ready yet?"

Newsie stared after him. Rhonda sighed. "Fine. Duck around the corner and grab us both cups of something drinkable, why doncha?" She poured her untouched cup into a wastebucket nearby, and focused her attention on the screen, claws clicking across the keyboard. "What if we start with a shot of the bug-thing?" she muttered to herself. "Hmm. Too jarring? Nah...that commercial for Al's Chicken-Suit Costume Barn is scarier, and they show _that_ every danged hour on KRAS..."

Turning away, Newsie brought out his phone, thinking, _I should call Gina again, make sure she's okay..._ Although she hadn't mentioned anything odd happening at the Sosilly, he wanted to hear her voice right now, just to soothe his nerves. Before he could even scroll through his contact directory, the cell phone rang, startling him. He managed not to drop it. "Er...hello? Muppet Newsman!"

"Um...hello...this is Nurse Susan at Blucher Memorial..." In the background, Newsie could have sworn he heard a horse neighing for a second.

"Oh. Yes, is...is my aunt..." He swallowed a dry throat, anxiety of a different cause rising.

"She...uh..."

"Just...just tell me. Did she...did she feel any pain?" Newsie asked, his voice rough, eyes closing, bracing himself for the news.

"She's awake, Mr Crimp," the nurse said.

"She...what?"

"She's _awake._ And she's asking for you."

Newsie stood stock-still, frozen, disbelieving, several seconds. The nurse asked, "Uh...Mr Crimp? Are you there?"

"I'll be right there," Newsie said. He hung up, and somehow found the energy to start moving his feet.

"Whaddaya think about putting the shot of the Nofrisko building right after the running shot of the monster tunnels, Goldie?" Rhonda asked. When he didn't reply, she looked up, frowning. "Goldie?"

The short, golden-yellow-felted reporter had vanished from the Muppet Theatre green room. The rat sighed, shaking her head. "Him and his French-press coffee. I swear, that woman's spoiled him." Grumbling, she returned to her task, skimming through files of footage, trying to determine what combination of images would best make this city sit up and take notice, and take heed before the hour grew too late.


	36. Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. _In which Ethel delivers a warning; a rat and shrimp are spooked; and the vet struggles with perfection and deadlines._

It took him a moment to argue his way past a drowsy Bobo, but then the Newsman burst into his aunt's hospital room, out of breath, heart slamming. "Is she all right? What happened?" he cried. A doctor, a nurse, and his distant cousin Fred all turned to stare at him...although in Fred's case it was more of a glare. "She's conscious?" Newsie pressed, heading for the bed.

The doctor stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "She's...she's conscious, yes, but you shouldn't expect too much, Mr Crimp. We removed her breathing tube because she insisted on speaking...but her pulse is erratic, and it was her wish not to be revived if..."

"I know," Newsie gulped, trying to regain his composure. "I understand." He looked up at Fred, but the taller man merely turned back to Ethel, watching the frail old lady wheezing, her pale hands clutching the sheets. Newsie stepped up to the bed, barely able to peer over the rail. "Aunt Ethel? It...it's me, Aloysius..."

Her unfocused gaze trailed around the ceiling. The nurse pushed a chair closer to the bed, and Newsie gave her a thankful nod and climbed up to better see his failing aunt. He took one of her hands in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "A-aunt Ethel? I'm here..."

Her eyes slid over to him, and she squinted. "Tell...tell my nephew to come...I have to talk to him..." she whispered.

Newsie swallowed back rising grief. He gave her a nod, trying to appear confident. "I'm...I'm trying to locate him, Auntie. I'll bring Chester to you as soon as –"

"Not Chester," the old woman spat with startling strength. She leaned forward, wheezing hard. "Aloysius! He works for a newspaper! You have to tell him!"

 _Newspaper? I haven't been with a paper since...since before the Muppet Show hired me..._ Realizing his aunt still wasn't in the present moment, Newsie simply nodded at her, trying to reassure; the nurse gently coaxed her to lay back down, and her breathing eased slightly. "What should I tell him?" Newsie asked, his throat feeling thick, his voice hoarse.

She gazed, unfocused, around the room. Fred paced slowly by the foot of the bed, listening but remaining silent. The doctor murmured something to the nurse and left the room. "Aunt Ethel? What did you need to tell Aloysius?" Newsie prompted.

"Aloysius?" she asked, appearing confused.

Eagerly he grasped her hand tighter. "Yes, Auntie...I'm here."

She shot him a very focused glare suddenly, and jerked her hand back with a gasp. "You let go of me, you vulture! I'm not dead yet! You'll get your money soon enough!"

Shaken, Newsie cringed back, at a loss as to what to say. "N-no, I...Aunt Ethel..."

"I have to talk to Aloysius!" she yelled, her creaky voice far from the melodious tone he recalled from childhood. "They're all under the city! They're evil! He has to warn everyone! Get me Aloysius!"

"Ethel," Fred said, his tone sharp enough that she paused and looked at him. Fred placed a hand on Newsie's shoulder. "This Muppet will make sure Aloysius gets your message. That's what he's here for. Tell him."

"Oh," Ethel said, her voice fading again, her scowl smoothing out. "Oh, how nice. Thank you, Fred." Fred nodded, backing off again. Newsie looked at him, startled, but then his aunt's faltering fingers took his hand, and she smiled tentatively at him. "You...you know my nephew?"

"Yes," Newsie managed to croak out.

"Then...you have to tell him," Ethel whispered, glancing furtively around. "This is very important!"

"Yes?" Newsie leaned in close, tamping down his fear and his dismay, doing his best to be what she needed him to be.

"There...are... _monsters_ under the city!" Ethel hissed. When he stared at her, she nodded, looking grim. "Oh, yes! Horrible things! Don't ever ride the last train of the night! I saw them! I saw them...take an old man right off that train! They dragged him down into the tunnels!"

"They did?" _The disappearances ARE because of the monsters! I knew it!_

"Oh yes! They live...down there...they hide, they plot, they're after _all_ of us," Ethel assured him, her voice barely a breath. "I saw them! He wasn't anyone, you know...one of those crazy people who live on the street." She gave Newsie a deeply serious stare. "Someone whom no one would miss, you see? But they won't stop at that, oh no...it takes thirty-one lives, you see. They have to have thirty-one for it to work."

"Thirty-one lives?" Newsie blinked at her. "I...I don't understand."

She grabbed his hand tightly, squeezing surprisingly hard. "It won't _work_ without the thirty-one! That's why they're doing it! You have to tell Aloysius so he can warn everyone! He's a reporter! He'll make them listen!"

"Warn...warn people that monsters are kidnapping –"

"Warn them about the storm!" Ethel shouted, startling everyone. "It starts with a storm! Blinding white! Freakish, like them! They'll start it then! They'll kill everyone! You _tell him!_ You _tell him_ what they're doing before it's too late!"

She choked, coughed, and fell back against the pillow. Her monitor was beeping loudly. The nurse pushed Newsie aside, checking the readouts, then resettled Ethel's head on her pillow. Newsie clung to the back of the plastic chair, stunned, staring at the nearly-beige, weary face sinking into the whiteness of the bed. _A storm? A freak storm? What does that have to do with...how could she even know..._

"Is there anyone else we should call?" the nurse asked quietly. Newsie stared at her. Fred paused, then shook his head.

"My sister and her husband have all the kids right now. They know it won't be long. No point in them rushing over," Fred replied.

Newsie swallowed back tears, and with a shaking hand picked up Ethel's once more; all the strength had left her fingers. He stroked her hand softly. "Aunt Ethel? I'll...I'll tell Aloysius...but...how...how do you know any of what the monsters are planning?"

She fluttered her eyes at him, seeming groggy. "Hmm?"

"How do you know about the thirty-one lives?" he asked, trying to keep her attention. "And what do you mean, a storm? What kind of storm?"

"The kind that hides everything," Ethel whispered. She seemed to be drifting off, her breathing shallow, her eyes barely open.

"But _how_ do you know?" Newsie insisted.

She smiled sleepily at him. "I caught one of them. Tied him up and pulled his nose hairs until he confessed, silly! _That's_ what you do with their kind." Satisfied, she sighed. "Joe, I want to sleep now. You stop worrying over that account and come to bed."

Newsie remained crouched, half-atop the bed, utterly overwhelmed, his aunt's limp fingers still grasped loosely in his. Fred leaned over the bed, placing a hand on Ethel's shoulder. "Grandma Ethel..."

"Oh...yes dear?" She blinked up at him, smiling.

"Is there anything we can get you, Grandma?"

"No, thank you, dear. I'm all right. Oh...if you see Homer's boys, tell them not to go down to the lake today; it looks as though it might rain," she murmured. Fred gave Newsie a questioning look; Newsie shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. Ethel sighed again; the nurse shut off the heart monitor, and the silence once the alarm was stilled sent goosebumps over Newsie's felt.

He stroked his aunt's hand, noting how pale, how frail her own felt appeared; he could see faint veins of cerulean underneath, like a tracery of lines on an old map. "I...I love you, Aunt Ethel," he muttered, unable to find any strength for his own voice.

"Love you too, dear," she murmured. "Give your mother a kiss for me. And if you see Aloysius...tell him he's a good boy." She smiled, eyes closed. "Always such a good boy...he'll like living at the lake. He was always so happy there."

Newsie felt tears coursing down his cheeks, but didn't want to let go of her hand to wipe them away. The soft pulse and hiss of the oxygen line was the only sound in the room. Fred watched Ethel; Newsie couldn't see anymore. The nurse gently checked the side of Ethel's thin neck for several seconds. She tried another spot. She carefully removed the oxygen line from Ethel's nose, and turned off the pump. Its soft, dying hiss sounded so final, so evocative of the unheard last breath, that Newsie felt fresh grief welling. He couldn't let go of Ethel's hand. A heavy weight settled on his shoulder; he blinked up and realized it was Fred's hand. Ethel's step-grandson gazed down at her, his expression tight and controlled. Trembling, Newsie released his grip enough to bring one hand up to his shoulder, and fuzzy skin touched tough flesh a moment. Fred swallowed visibly, let go of Newsie, and turned away.

"I'll just give you a few minutes," the nurse murmured, slipping from the room.

Newsie rubbed the water from his eyes fiercely, blinking hard as he readjusted his glasses. _She found out. She really did know. How the hey did she manage to capture one of them? No wonder they wanted her dead!_ Anger swelled in his chest. _They did this! They had to! Those...those stringy things! They put her here – they did this!_ _"They_ did this!" he said aloud. Fred turned back to him, surprised. Newsie nodded hard, his voice gaining strength, depth. "She knew! She _knew_ what they were planning – that's why they hurt her! They're responsible for this!"

"Who?" Fred demanded.

"The monsters!" Newsie gestured at the still, sunken body in the bed. "You heard her!"

"Aloysius...Ethel was crazy. She had _dementia._ For God's sake, she didn't even know who _you_ were! You can't believe anything she –"

"She wasn't crazy!" Newsie argued. "So _what_ if she didn't recognize me? She – she knew what the monsters were planning – _are_ planning! They d—d near killed her for it before she could tell anyone!"

Fred grabbed his shoulder roughly, nearly unbalancing him in the chair. "Listen to yourself! You know, I thought, as _naive_ as you are, even _you_ had some sense of reality! Monsters? Killing? Get a grip, Muppet!" Angrily, he shoved Newsie back; the shorter Muppet grabbed the back of the chair, glaring through blurry eyes.

"She was telling the truth! There _are_ monsters underneath the city; I've seen them myself! You – you just watch my report tonight! It'll be online, with a link on the _New York Times!"_ he shouted. "She wasn't crazy! She was _right,_ and that's why she's _dead!"_

"Are you insane? Does the phrase _natural causes_ mean anything to you?" Fred shot back. "You know, I really can't – Get out of here. Just get out of here! I don't want to hear any more of this outrageous insanity! Show a little _respect,_ for God's sake!"

Inflamed, Newsie jumped from the chair, advancing on Fred. "No! She wasn't crazy! The monsters had her killed!" When Fred began to protest again, Newsie shoved him back a step. _"No!_ _I'm_ her blood relation! _You're_ the one being disrespectful by not believing her! _You_ get out!"

Breathless, they glared at one another a second. Fred straightened his shirtsleeves, and lowered his voice. "Fine. Fine." Without another word, he strode from the room.

Newsie gulped, reining in the sobs which threatened to come pouring out of his throat. The nurse returned, concerned. "Is...is anything wrong?"

 _No, why would anything be wrong?_ Newsie thought, feeling dizzy. _My aunt found out what the monsters were doing, and they tried to kill her, and now she's dead, and I have no idea what she meant, and I'm supposed to warn the whole city, and I have no broadcast, and no one believes me except Gina and Rhonda...no, all of that's perfectly peachy keen..._ "I...I'm fine," he answered as calmly as he could. "Everything is...is fine. She's...she's fine now..." He glanced back at his motionless aunt, a tiny shell of lifeless felt and foam where once merriment had twinkled in bright eyes, where once song had lifted his spirits from her well-tuned voice, where once he'd been given an inkling of what parental love might feel like when she would sneak him a cookie from the kitchen, or listen to his hesitant ideas about his own future, or show him how to fly a kite in the clean, light air above the lake...

The nurse nodded slowly, her eyes sympathetic. "Can I...can I call anyone for you?"

Newsie wrested his tears back, digging out his handkerchief and wiping his nose. "No...thank you...I'll...I have my phone. Thank you." The nurse watched him a moment longer, then with a soft sigh, gently lifted the sheet and drew it over Ethel's face. She offered to bring him a glass of water, and when she'd left again, Newsie backed away from the bed, clambering awkwardly onto a low recliner in a corner of the room. He stared at his cell phone a long while, giving up the idea of keeping his vision focused. Finally he called Gina.

"Sweetie? Hi!"

"I..." he gulped, choked, unable to speak. He tried again. "I... A-aunt..."

Silence a moment. Then Gina said, "Stay there. I'm on my way."

He nodded, and hung up. He sat there, crying with as little sound as he could manage. The room seemed empty now.

"Come along, come along," said the skinny Whatnot with the large round head, strolling toward the formerly-impressive entry to the crumbling, condemned hotel. Suspicious eyes peered from narrow doorways hung with paper lanterns and plastic souvenirs of NYC made in Taiwan. Rizzo grunted as he hefted another box out of the trunk of the taxi.

Below him at the curb, Pepe urged, "Move it already. The faster we get this done, the faster we gets back to the kitchen, no?"

"I'm going – ungh – as fast as I – errrgh! – can!" Rizzo panted. He shoved the heavy box over the edge of the trunk. "Catch!"

"Wait, I did not say I was –" THUMP. "...ready..." Pepe groaned.

Rizzo cackled. "Move it or lose it, chump!"

Pepe complained at the avocado-felted young man with the triangular olive-felted nose, "So where is this party with foods and womens jou promised, amigo? All I see is a dirty street with lots of people giving me the...the _seafood_ eye, okay." Shuddering, he looked around once, certain he could smell five-spice seasoning...and the way a large man with a cleaver was staring at him from the window of a nearby noodle house was frankly disturbing.

"The party is this Saturday, at an off-off-Broadway locale," the bored-sounding Whatnot explained. "As I've already told you, help set up the decor for the charity walk, and I'll personally issue you both passes to help clean up after the caterers."

"Eh, least it'll be catered," Rizzo grumbled, pushing one side of the box while Pepe dragged the other, inching toward the broken steps to the hotel. He paused to look up at the façade. Once-festive moldings above the windows had largely crumbled; specks of the whitewash made the stone pockmarked with bulletholes seem even more ancient than its actual hundred years. "Ya know, though, I kinda doubt _any_ amount of banners is gonna make _dis_ place look cheerful."

"I see spiderwebs, okay," Pepe noted, searching the half-smashed windows with nervous eyes. "Do spiders eat prawns? Because I am _not_ liking the looks of this place already!"

"Nah, I don't t'ink so," Rizzo replied. "Besides, dey probably prefer stuff wit' a little meat on 'em."

"What are jou saying? I work out!"

"Er... _gentlemen,_ please," the Whatnot called, checking his watch. "A little due diligence would be much appreciated!"

"Listen at dis guy," Rizzo growled low, huffing as he shoved the box slowly closer to the stairs. "Who's he t'ink he is anyway, Mr Harvard?"

"Well he isn't talking at _jou_ okay," Pepe snickered. "I see only _one_ gentlemans around here!"

They continued to bicker as they moved the box all the way to the stairs; although he seemed impatient, the Whatnot never took a step to help them. He pushed open the door to the hotel lobby. "Through here, please."

Rat and shrimp stopped and stared at the seven steps leading up to the door. "Aw no," Rizzo said, hands on his hips. "Dis is where my achin' back overtakes my salivatin' tongue! No _way_ am I luggin' dis t'ing up all them steps! Do it yourself, Boredish!"

"The name's _Blandish,"_ the Whatnot chided, frowning. "Miles Blandish, attorney-at-law, junior partner with the prestigious firm of Bland and –"

"And too-lazy-to-carry-a-box-already," Pepe sniffed, agreeing with Rizzo. He stood next to his diminutive colleague, folding four arms over his puffed-out chest. "Jou wants our help, _jou_ take the heavy box inside! What the _madre de los camerones_ is _in_ this thing anyway?"

The lawyer sighed, and reluctantly removed his tailored grey jacket and tucked his silk tie within his crisp white shirt. "Very well...but _only_ because this is for a good cause..."

"Yeah, uh, what cause would dat be again?" Rizzo wondered as the three of them trooped inside the hotel. Dusty cobwebs festooned every high corner and lifeless wall-lamp, dirt and a crunch of dead leaves evoked distaste wherever their feet fell on the cracked marble floor, and the standing worklight which the lawyer switched on only made the shadows atop the long formal stairway seem deeper.

"The charity walk will raise money for the Muppet Anti-Discrimination League," Blandish reminded them crossly. He set the box on the old check-in counter; some of the wooden molding there immediately flumphed into a pile of dust. "Now, make sure you use _all_ the decorations; we paid a ridiculous amount to have it all customized, and the cameras should pick up every last banner and sign."

"Wait, wait, okay," Pepe said, peering into the box gingerly from a tiptoe stance atop the counter. He pulled a fat roll of crepe paper from the box. "Hold on, I thought jou said this walking thing was going to be on _la Dia de los Muertos en Nuevo York,_ okay?"

"What is he saying?" Blandish muttered aside to Rizzo.

The rat shrugged, scrambling up to take a look inside the box for himself. "Eh, I nevah know half a' what he says. Hey, I thought dis t'ing was gonna be on Halloween? What's wit' da blue and green streamers?"

Pepe gestured at the ceiling in annoyance. "That's what _I_ was just saying, okay..."

"Shouldn't ya have used orange and black or somethin'?"

Blandish frowned mildly. "Whyever would we do that? Clearly you both are ignorant of the official colors of Nofrisko! They're the major sponsors for the walk, you know."

"Oh, wait – ain't dey da ones who make dose tasty Goat Chips?" Rizzo asked, drawing a large plastic sign emblazoned with both the Nofrisko and MADL logos out of the box. "I like them." He studied the sign a moment. "Dey really coulda picked a more exciting name for dis t'ing. Come on: 'da Nofrisko Spook Walk for MADL'? Totally lame!"

"Goat Chips? What is this _mier—"_

"Dey make prawn crackers too, I hear," Rizzo taunted.

Pepe sniffed, antennae pointing at the chandelier haughtily. "Now jou is just messing with me."

"Remember, gentlemen, hang all of it! Make sure it's all at eye level so the cameras will catch it!" Blandish admonished, and fell to polishing his fingers with a dainty hankie. "My goodness, just look how dusty I've become! I really wish they'd chosen some other, less dirty venue..."

Rizzo grunted, hefting the sign up and smacking a couple of thumbtacks into it to attach it to the wall behind the counter. "So why _didja_ choose dis old wreck?"

Blandish sighed. "Well, I was only allowed a half-vote, as I'm only a junior partner. The senior partners Mr Bland and Mr Blander were asking around the community, and Nofrisko _volunteered_ the use of this old place for the whole month! Terribly generous of them. They said, according to Mr Blander, that they were excited about working with so many Muppets all in one place on Halloween night." He glanced around at the half-cracked mirrors which threw back cloudy shadows of movement instead of actual reflections. "I must admit, I've no idea what they intend to do with the property. I suppose it would make sense to demolish it and erect a Chinatown outlet store for MoHos or something. I understand the Orientals do love their silly-named snack cakes."

"Like da Prawn Puffyumi?" Rizzo asked innocently. He chortled and ducked when Pepe flung a roll of crepe at him; the tissue unwound, drifting lazily over an old coatrack. "Hey, good idea! Let's roll da place!"

Pepe muttered something unprintable under his breath. Rizzo scurried across to the stairway balustrade and began tossing a roll of green crepe over the banister, catching it each time as he darted under the rail to toss it up again, winding it up the stairs. When he reached the halfway point, beyond which the light below only picked out faint shimmers of cobwebs, he paused, reconsidered, and simply tossed the roll the rest of the way up. Trotting back down the stairs, he asked, "So, what, da snack company is underwritin' da charity walk? Whadda _they_ get out of it?" He jumped, startled, when the crepe roll came bouncing back down past him. With a frown, he retrieved it and lobbed it upstairs again.

"Well, good publicity, I would imagine," Blandish replied. "It's quite an honor to have one's name associated with our cause, you know!"

"Jou mean that cause nobody outside of you has heard of?" Pepe snorted. He clung to a tattered curtain with three limbs, using the others to position and tack up another sign over the boards inside a once-grand window.

"Hey, t'row me another roll a' that tissue stuff," Rizzo said. Blandish absently tossed a roll of blue crepe at him. Rizzo jumped again when his original green roll bumped him in the back as he was set to catch the blue. "Hey, what gives?"

Pepe snickered at him. "Jou never heard of gravitys?"

Irritated, Rizzo hauled back his arm and threw the green crepe roll as hard as he could up the stairs. Turning back to the blue roll, he looked around for a good place to start it, intending to drape it from frame to frame on the rotted, indistinguishable canvases still hanging on the lobby walls. A soft weight thumped the back of his skull, toppling him. _"Ow!_ Hey!"

"Don't just focus on the stairway," Blandish sighed impatiently. "Get the streamers going from wall to wall! And don't forget the dining room!"

"Okay, okay already," Pepe grumbled. "Rizzo, give me a hand with this _cada..._ paper," he amended quickly, panting from a struggle, having somehow managed to tangle all six limbs while wrapping a green roll and a blue together for a streamer.

Feeling skittish now, Rizzo hurried away from the stairs gladly, casting many a nervous look over his shoulder. The fat end of the crepe roll sat still at the bottom of the staircase. He let it lie.

"Fascinating," Van Neuter murmured, poking the neutronically-charged end of the plasma-wand through the force-field. The dragon ghost snarled, but wasn't foolish enough to swat it away, having been shocked several times already. The cryptoveterinarian pulled at his rubbery lower lip, thinking; he started to tap the wand against his own arm, and Thatch leaped forward, grabbing it before the absent-minded scientist could shock himself. The monster received the full voltage instead, and his teeth ground together, his feathers jittering so hard a couple of them dislodged and swooped away. Van Neuter snatched back the wand, glaring. "Thatch! Stop that! That's the _third_ time I've had to ask you not to play with my wand!"

"Graaaahhhh," McGurk muttered, fainting.

"Hmm, now...I wonder what would happen if..." Curious, the vet looked from his ghostly captive to his broad-spectrum mitochondrial photosynthetic globule splitter. The spectral form with glowing green eyes merely glowered at him. Van Neuter began tossing aside delicate pipettes left over from his biological cesium distillation and the remains of a club sandwich on stale baguette, hunting for the ectoplasmic sample grabbers he'd received as a birthday gift last year from Bunnie. "If I can just get a nice chunk of phantasmic flesh off you, I _might_ be able to synthesize a coagulant which would allow me to manipulate your ghostly DNA, heh heh, so to speak!" Frustrated at the mess, he stood up straight and set his broad gloved hands on his nonexistent hips. _"How_ can I be expected to transmogrify spectral specimens without that dratted sample grabber? Ah – _there_ it is!" His temporary triumph, holding aloft the plastic alligator-head-on-a-stick, was sidelined by the chill voice on the intercom:

"When will I be seeing your report on the transmutation process in our guests, Doctor?"

"Wha! Oh! Uh..." Van Neuter jumped, fumbling; he stared sadly at the grabber plunging somewhere back into the jumble of objects on the floor. Thatch groaned, coming around with an even worse hornache than before. The monster wondered with a wince whether there was a point of diminishing return on these shock treatments. Van Neuter swung around to smile up at the camera the security Frackles had installed after the Nofrisko break-in. "Hello! Welcome to the lab, your dark underthing!"

He sensed a pause in the other end of the line; apparently the boss was considering the epithet. Perhaps judging it immaterial for the moment, the dark, cool voice continued, "Doctor. While it is _always_ amusing to observe you playing with your pets, I must know whether your experiments on the human subjects have brought forth any promising results yet."

"Experiments on...oh _those_ experiments! Ha ha...yes of course...uhhh..." Van Neuter smiled, frowned, fumbled in his coat pockets, and finally produced a small notepad. "Here, let me see... Uh, Subjects number one through six responded to the transmogrification serum...unfavorably." He adjusted his goggles and blinked up at the camera. "They, er, have been turned over to the game shows for prizes."

"Very well...I shall remind the hosts not to allow contestants to devour them _unless_ they swallow them whole. We'll need anything with human blood for the big night...which, I ought not to have to tell you, draws ever closer, Van Neuter."

"Well, I'm still working on it," Van Neuter said. "The last one broke out into thorns. Gave Thatch here a rash."

"A...rash?"

"Razza frazza!" McGurk agreed, rolling up his fur on his left arm to show the camera the blotchy turquoise spots on his lavender skin.

"That doesn't look so pretty," the underlord mused. "I would not be averse to thorns."

Van Neuter shook his head. "But I was _trying_ for coarse prickly fur! It's just not working well enough yet...the outcome is wildly unpredictable, and you did say you wanted a thousand legs and claws and quivering drippy antennae and –"

"Yeeeuurgh," McGurk gulped, turning pale.

"Keep trying! Do whatever you have to do! I _must_ be ready to ascend at the conjunction of the Scorpion and the Destroyer of Stars! This is _imperative!"_ Van Neuter waited, wringing his hands at that horrible voice; Thatch edged behind him. The voice calmed, though its abrupt return to silky hollowness was even more unnerving than the bellow. "Focus on extracts of the milliworms, Doctor. I wish my glorious new form to be one guaranteed to strike terror into the simpletons walking the surface! Get on it!"

"Right away!" Van Neuter gulped. He heard the soft click of the intercom disconnecting. With a sigh, the vet turned to his cringing assistant. "Honestly...what does he think I've _been_ doing?"

"Plazza wuh drabba," Thatch replied, pointing at the spectral entity watching them from his faintly glowing cell.

"Determining whether or not a ghost has DNA which can be twisted is _not_ play, I'll have you know! It's a very difficult, detailed undertaking which – oh! _Undertaking!_ That was a good one! Ha ha ha!" Grinning, the vet elbowed his monster. Thatch merely narrowed all three eyes at him. Van Neuter sniffed. "Hmf! No sense of humor, either of you, I see. Fine. Let's just grab the next contestant for _'I Married a Monster!'"_

Leaving the lab, they paused just outside so Van Neuter could lock the faded green-painted door before heading downstairs into the warren of tunnels occupied by slimier things. Van Neuter greeted one of the giant centipede-things cheerfully: "Well _hello_ gorgeous! My, aren't we looking wonderfully crawly today!"

The insectoid monster stared at him with wide compound eyes, then with a squeak it shot up the wall to the ceiling and booked away as fast as its hundreds of tiny legs could carry it. Van Neuter frowned, and turned his glare on Thatch. _"Another_ one running away! Thatch, were you making that scary face at it again?"


	37. Chapter 34-1

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (part one). _In which there is a close encounter of the Muppet kind in a shower room, and the Martians vow revenge._

Only after threatening to actually talk to the boss was Snookie allowed to hit the showers. He had no idea what time of day it might be outside; the glow-worms in all the hallways seemed to have no internal clock of their own, and radiated cold gloomy illumination all the time, as far as he'd been able to observe. All he knew was that he'd done nearly thirty show tapings and commercial spots today, and he was tired, ragged, and covered in some kind of mushroom sauce. (That fifteen-second spot promoting _Flukeman's Fabulous Fungus Funporium_ really stank...in every sense.) He'd yelled hoarsely at the blugh-speaking monster trailing after him all day until he was brought a clean towel and shorts and an undershirt which actually still appeared white instead of yellow or grey; realizing this was the most luxury he'd experienced in months gave Snookie no great feeling of satisfaction.

He trudged into the shower room, snarling at Blugh: "I don't need you in here! Leave me alone for five minutes – unless you want me to tell everyone you have a Muppet fetish!" Abashed, Blugh hastily ducked back outside, and Snookie sat down on one of the cracked wooden benches just outside the actual stalls. _Ye frogs, my kingdom for a private shower._ Sighing deeply, he curled his knees to his chest, laying his head on them a long moment, eyes closed, just taking in the relative silence of the room. A dripping faucet kept him company, but that was fine. _Just a day, one whole day, to sleep...alone...that's all I ask anymore,_ he thought.

His mind wandered back to the message he'd been given earlier that day – was it only today? Seemed like a week already, but who knew, down here... _My cousin's coming to rescue me. Yeah. Right. These freaks get one look at him, he'll be sharing a cell with me, I bet. Or he'll go straight down Carl's gullet. What an idiot. He really thinks he can just come find me and all will be well? Not froggy likely. If he only found out about me recently, where's he been all this time? I was famous, d—it! Well...for a while, I was..._ Depressed, he turned his thoughts away from the bleak timeline of his rise and sudden fall in show business. _History now._ Unable to quell the uneasiness the strange message had brought up, he glanced around once, then extracted the small photo from the inside of his trouser-leg hem. The yellow-felted Muppet pictured had deep lines around his squinting eyes, but his smile seemed genuine, and the way he held, and was held by, the nonfelted girl spoke eloquently of the kind of partnership Snookie himself had only halfheartedly considered. _He's free, and he has someone,_ Snookie thought. _Must be awash in bliss twenty-four-seven._

The door to the shower room banged open, startling Snookie, who fumbled in trying to stuff the picture back into the safety of its hiding-place. A blue Whatever covered in yellowish goop and eggshells bounced in, followed closely but with far less energy by a pinkish-furred monster with three tired eyes, similarly coated in what looked like Easter gone horribly wrong. "But that was just a _practice run!"_ Gonzo exclaimed. "Of _course_ I won't drop the whole carton next time – I just got distracted when you set off the sparklers early! You have to _wait_ until I say, 'Then the nest is full of marvels!'" Suddenly noticing the game-show host, Gonzo smiled. "Oh – hi! Long day for you too, huh?" He sniffed. "Hey, smells good. What was that, stroganoff?"

Snookie glanced up at the mushroom sauce slowly sliding from his hair down his large rounded nose. He was frozen with the photo still in one hand and his leg absurdly stuck out. Easing into a more natural pose, he tried to pretend he hadn't been doing anything questionable, eyeing the fluff-headed pink monster with some anxiety. "Uh, heh heh, I guess so. Does it normally smell like month-old gym socks?"

"When it's done right," Gonzo said affably. "Uh, did you want to go first?" He gestured at the shower stalls.

"No...you go ahead. You look like you both need it worse," Snookie said, thinking if they busied themselves with that he'd have a better chance of concealing the photo; he lowered his hand to his lap, covering the small picture with his fingers, and gestured broadly at the daredevil with his other hand, a classic misdirection he'd learned from hosting _Three-Yard Monty!_ about a decade back. "You two look like you've been working on your next act for tomorrow, huh?"

"I'm going to be saving three dozen eggs of various sizes and densities from certain extermination-by-garden-tool, while reciting a paraphrased version of Billy Collins' 'Picnic, Lightning'," Gonzo explained. He indicated his monster assistant. "Rosie's throwing the eggs."

"Ebba," Rosie muttered, seeming far less enthused than Gonzo. He began to slouch toward the nearest shower stall, but paused when Gonzo stepped toward Snookie and grabbed the photo before Snookie could completely hide it.

"Hey, cool! Did Newsie send you that?" Gonzo asked.

"It's a token of appreciation from a fa—who?" Snookie gulped, his glib explanation cut short in confusion. He stared at the friendly Whatever. "You...what did you call him?"

"Oh, uh, sorry; I know he used to get a little huffy about his nickname. The Muppet Newsman. I work with him. Well, you know, not _with_ him, technically; I did _offer_ to let him hold the target up for my motorcycle jump once, but he said he was busy all week," Gonzo said, but the look on Snookie's face made him pause. "Oh, er...you don't actually know him?"

Snookie darted a furtive glance at Rosie, unsure how much to say. "Uh...he...he's my cousin. You work with him? And he's in the news?" Snookie frowned. "What is he, your publicist?"

Gonzo laughed, and grinned at Rosie. "As if any of those philistines would support a genuine _artiste!_ No, no...he works at the Muppet Theatre."

"It's still running?" Snookie wondered, amazed. He could recall hearing of the place as a young man; he hadn't thought a venue devoted to silly things like singing and dancing and corny jokes would ever last long...certainly, not long enough for any of the performers to make a living at it.

"Well, yeah!" Gonzo chuckled. "Geez...how long have you been down here, anyway?"

Snookie's expression darkened at once. "Heh, heh... A long time."

Gonzo handed the photo back, feeling sheepish. "Oh, uh...sorry. I didn't realize. Um. Well, yeah, the theatre's still going...and we shot a movie recently in Hollywood...and they're gearing up for a spooky one to start shooting soon. Hey, would you like to come aboard? I mean, we already have an emcee, of course; but, uh, you know, maybe you could do a game-show sketch? Kermit and I go way back, and I'd be happy to put in a good word for you..."

"No thank you," Snookie said, shuddering at the thought of ever doing another game show again. If he were out there again, _free_ again, he'd never be caught in front of a microphone or a fake audience! Not ever! Not even working with other Muppets... Overcome by a wellspring of unusual thoughts, he paused, then asked softly, "What...what is this Newsman like? What's it like...working with Muppets?"

"Oh, well, uh...it's great, although Kermit won't let me do all the stuff I really want to. That's why I'm here." Taken aback by the odd questions, and by how desperate the cynical host suddenly seemed, Gonzo took a seat next to him on the bench. Rosie hovered nearby a moment, impatient to wash the egg off his face, then shrugged and chose a stall. He flung his towel over the swinging door; a moment later, the sound of running water was accompanied by scrubbing, humming sounds, and then a cleanly-rinsed coat of short pink fur landed over the stall door to drip-dry. Snookie stared at that a second, decided he didn't want to even _think_ about a naked monster using the soap-on-a-rope, and returned his attention to Gonzo. "Well, umm...Newsie's a good guy. Y'know, a little, uh, conventional...not the artistic type at all. He used to be _really_ uptight, but that lady of his has definitely changed him for the better! I've actually seen him smile a couple of times this past year..."

"But he...he works with you, you said?"

"Oh. I should've explained that better. I mean he works at the theatre, but he also has a regular news gig. He's an anchor or something now, I think," Gonzo said. "That's so cool that he's your cousin and he sent you fan mail! Hey – maybe we could get him to cover me in the winner's circle at the last show!" He grinned. "Or did that sound overconfident? Ahh, dream big, win big! Hey, would it be prejudicial for you to tell me who you think my strongest competition will be?"

Snookie tried to digest all this. "Has he...said anything to you about visiting down here?"

"No...but I haven't seen him in weeks," Gonzo reminded the host. "They keep us contestants kinda secluded. I guess they don't want us stealing ideas from the mainstream entertainment media. Hey, why don't you invite him to the next show? He doesn't normally do showbiz news, but I'm sure since you're his cousin he'd do you a favor. He's a nice guy...just a little dry, that's all."

"Uh...sure. I'll do that," Snookie muttered. He tucked the photo away. "Speaking of dry, you should go wash those yolks off. Otherwise you'll be scratching yellow dander for days."

"Good point," Gonzo agreed. "Nice talking with you. See you tomorrow night! It's gonna be fantastic!" Beaming, he snatched up his own towel and went dashing into the free stall. "Hey Rosie, toss me some of that lava shampoo!"

Snookie was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the splash-fight over the three-quarter stall walls which ensued behind him. _My cousin goes by 'Newsie'? How quaint. And he's a no-nonsense reporter type...great. No way can he have any idea what's going on down here. He'll be walking right into the monster's den. Poor schmuck is doomed already._ He shook his head. _Man, I wish I COULD send him a note – I'd tell him to run the other way! Save himself! Coming after me isn't wonderful, it's suicide!_ Depressed again, he slumped on the bench, the mushroom gravy plopping off his nose barely a nuisance next to the black shade of his train of thought. _But what if he does come down here? What then? What can I do?_ He scowled. _Nothing! Nothing I CAN do! That idiot's on his own! I can't be responsible for anyone trying to rescue...me..._ He gulped, abruptly feeling _guilty._ It was not a sensation he was accustomed to, and he struggled with it. _I didn't ask him to come find me! I didn't want anyone to...to... Bullcrap. Yes I did. I just didn't think anyone would REMEMBER me, much less want to get me out of here..._ He wiped away an unexpected tear. _Man, that lava shampoo is pungent. Hope they finish soon so I can wash up._

He repeatedly steered his mind away from any further thought of his cousin's misplaced heroism, waiting until the water stopped and two laughing, soaked creatures emerged with towels around their waists. As they dried themselves, chatting about shovels, rakes, and ellipsoidal weight distribution midair, Snookie slipped the photo into his clean underwear and folded it with the undershirt on a shelf high inside one of the shower stalls, where the water splashing would be minimal and he could keep an eye on it. He heard the snap of a wet towel and a monsterish yelp, followed by Gonzo's laughter cut short: "Oh! Uh...sorry... Rosie, put your fur on, for crying out loud..."

"I see machismo runs rampant even down here," griped a strident voice. Startled, Snookie looked over to see the pink-spattered blue Whatnot girl standing just inside the room, glaring at everyone. A sheepish Rosie finished shrugging into his fur, hastily smacking closed the Velcro tabs up his belly. Gonzo wrapped an egg-print robe over himself without removing his towel, and nodded apologetically at the girl. "Look, if the bathroom _has_ to be co-ed, can you jokers at least give me some privacy?" Stinkbomb complained; Gonzo and Rosie hurriedly left. She turned to Snookie, eyes narrowing as she recognized him. "Nice. Not only co-ed, but co-monster-and-Muppet. So much for respecting our felted rights."

"You're lucky they even let you get a shower," Snookie retorted. "What'd you do, gripe until they couldn't take it anymore?"

"Yeah...and then some big ugly shark-mouthed groundhog ate me. _Again,"_ the girl snarled. "What kinda crazy joint is this place, anyway? I've never seen so many monsters disrespectful of basic Muppet rights! What makes them think they can just –"

"Because they _can,"_ Snookie interrupted. "You just don't get it, do you, kid? They run this place. They _own_ us – you and me and every sucker who gets tricked down here." He gave her a sour look. "Lemme guess: they hooked you with the promise of a soapbox to stand on."

"Nobody hooked me, they _grabbed_ me!" Stinkbomb argued. "They grabbed me right off the street! Dragged me through the sewers! Pure anti-Muppet kidnapping! When I get out of here, they better –"

"You're not _getting out,"_ Snookie corrected, stepping closer to glare at her eye-to-eye. Well, almost; she was slightly shorter than him. "Hasn't the reality of all this sunk into your fuzzy little brain yet? None of us get out! Up there, kid, maybe you were some hotshot young rabble-rouser, but down here, you're...you're...a slave." He paused, swallowing hard as he realized that really _was_ the perfect word for it. "All of us, everyone except the monsters; we're slaves... Well, maybe them too, under that big scary boss they're always whispering about. Who knows? Point is...there _is_ no escape. Nobody's going to find us, nobody's going to save us, and anyone that tries will...will be gobbled up just the same." He stopped, waiting for her next outburst, but she was surprisingly silent. She stared at him, round eyes turning moist, and Snookie fought down the urge to sympathize. He'd tried making allies before, and what had come of that? Betrayal...or else the painful loss of a friend. He wondered how poor Geoff was doing...whether he'd become one of _them_ , as he'd seemed to be heading for the last time Snookie had laid eyes on him.

Finally the girl said quietly, "You've been down here years, haven't you."

Snookie nodded, his throat feeling too thick to talk.

The girl swallowed as well, looking him over, seeming to at last notice the scum in his hair, the bedraggled clothing, the weariness in his face. She asked, "Will you...will you tell me what to do?"

Boggled, Snookie stared at her. She added quickly, "I mean, to get by. To not make them mad. To not get...get...again." She trembled a little, just once, but Snookie felt a tremor of empathy go through him. He couldn't say a word. He simply nodded again, and the girl relaxed a notch. "Cool. Great. So...uh...which of these two mold-covered cesspools is the better shower?"

"That one," Snookie said, indicating the stall he knew had the stronger water pressure. He removed his own clothing from the shelf there, and stood back to allow her to go first. "Uh...do you...did they give you any clothes?"

Stinkbomb looked down at herself; her once-stylish jean jacket was covered in digestive slime. "Uh...no...I thought maybe I could...could wash this in there..."

Snookie held out his clean undershirt to her. She looked askance at it. "It might be a little big for you, but it's clean," he said sharply. She looked into his eyes again, and without a word accepted the shirt. She stepped into the stall, and Snookie sank onto the bench again, wondering at himself. How could he possibly help this kid? Sure, he could tell her what subjects to avoid mentioning around certain of the touchier monsters, but there was no way he could stop any of them from gulping her down, or subjecting her to game-show participation, or from tossing her into the _Big Monster_ house with its invasive cameras and attention-hungry roommates...

"You better not be peeking, you perv," she called over the sound of water.

Snookie, startled, realized the thought hadn't even occurred to him. It really _had_ been a long time since his frat-boy days... He began to chuckle, and suddenly he was laughing strongly, really laughing. It took him a few minutes to wrest himself under control. The girl, puzzled, asked, "What, you think I'm ugly? You think heck no, you'd never even want to _look_ at someone with two-tone felt? At a girl with a disfigurement, huh? Too ugly for you, with your sleek hair and your cute nose and your – your – manly chest, or something, is that it?"

Snookie blinked. "I...uh...no! No, I...you..." _Well, what the heck._ "No, you're actually...very pretty...uh, kid."

There was a long pause. Only the running water echoed in the moldy-tiled room. Then he heard her say quietly, "I'm not a kid."

She went back to washing, soft splashing noises oddly comforting to Snookie. He sat there, astounded at himself, not yet reminding himself this girl was destined for bad things as much as he was. Not yet. For just this moment...he was going to think about a young woman of felt, not three feet from him, who would shortly be wearing his long shirt...and possibly nothing else.

For just this moment, he was going to think about that. Not how little sleep or food or sunlight he'd had, not Carl's obscenely pro-monster show, not the insane schedule he'd be forced back into in probably only a few hours...for now, just that. Just _her._

He'd never felt protective over anyone before. It was, he decided, kind of...interesting.

The blue raggy thing couldn't bear to look at the still form under the sheet. With lower jaw drawn over googly eyes, it wrapped half its tentacles around its head for good measure, keening. "Aaaaaoooogie! Aaaaoooogieeeee!"

Its pink twin shook its head, sighing as well: "Ooogieeeee..." Mournfully, it tapped the edge of the padded gurney the small body lay upon. "Eth-el..."

"Bad cow got Eth-el," Blue groaned, but Pink comforted him, five tentacles wrapping around his companion.

"Nooooope. Nope nope nope. No bad cow. Was..." he paused, searching for a word which had no equivalent in their own language. "Ack-see-dent. Ackseedent. Yip. Yip yip yip yip."

"Aaawww?" Blue asked, puzzled.

"Yip yip," Pink assured him. "Eth-el fall down... Awww. Fall, mm."

"Why?" Blue demanded, gesturing wildly at the covered body of the Muppet they'd both adored. "Not right! Not fair! Uh-uh! Uh-uh!"

"Not fair," Pink agreed, and with another sigh offered the wisdom of his somewhat greater timecycles: "Just way is. Awww. Just way."

Blue stared widely at him a moment. Abruptly he hauled several tentacles back and thwopped Pink hard enough to send him tumbling jelly-over-eyeballs. _"Not funny!_ Noooope! Nopenopenopenope!"

"Not try funny!" Pink protested. "Way _is_ here!"

Blue turned away, gazing up at the gurney. "Aaaaooooooogie," he wailed.

Pink rejoined him, staring up as well, but silent. After a few more minutes of Blue's mournful keening, Pink's wide jaw slowly raised, tightening into a straight, determined line. He poked Blue, startling the grieving monster. "Ooog?" Blue grunted.

"Big boss go down." For once, the strange harsh voice was quiet. Pink's eyes narrowed to catlike slits, though they went horizontal instead of vertical. Blue looked uncertainly at him; he'd never seen his friend in this mood. Pink's tentacles vibrated, sending a ripple up his wobbly body until his antennae quivered. He glared at Blue. "Big boss go down _now."_

"Mm. Down. Down now," Blue said slowly, beginning to bounce lightly in solidarity with Pink. "Mm. Down. Awwwww yip yip yip. Down! Uh-huh! Uh-huh!"

Each of them, quivering, humming softly and tonelessly, hovered a moment above the still, sheeted form. Gently they brushed their soft tentacle-tips across the covered face of the late Ethel Muppman before wavering in the air and vanishing, and the nurse technician who entered the room a moment later only thought he saw an odd ripple in the air, and shrugged it off as fatigue. The gurney wheels squeaked as he took the body from the room.

At the elevator down the hall, Gina heard the sound of the wheels, and looked back; she saw the gurney slowly being taken away. At least whomever had been honking that ooga-horn had finally stopped; the noise had disturbed them, seeming badly inappropriate for such a sober time. Her Muppet clung to her, his face buried in her coat. She clasped him tighter, hoping he wouldn't turn around. The elevator softly chimed, the doors opened, and Gina walked her Aloysius inside, sparing him the last sad sight. She saved that for herself, and before the doors shut, thought, _Goodbye, Ethel. Thank you for loving my Newsie...he won't forget you._ She stroked Newsie's hair, and he did his best to hold back a sob, pulling his useless glasses off his face. _I'll be his family for you._ She bent over to kiss his forehead. "I love you."

"Love you," Newsie replied, his voice hoarse. "We...I need... I need to go to the theatre."

"Sweetie, no. Kermit won't insist you work tonight, I promise. Let's go home..."

"No, not yet," Newsie said gruffly. He wiped his face with his coatsleeve, and turned hard eyes up to his beloved. "She knew about the monsters. That's why they tried to kill her. I have to get that report out. Right now. Rhonda just needs me to deliver a voiceover...I need to do that. Now."

Gina felt both a surge of pride and a deep uneasiness about his determination; she could see it plainly in his gaze, in the set of his jaw, in the tenseness of his whole posture. Reluctantly she nodded. "All right. I'll go with you." She kept her arm around his shoulders, and after a moment, he took her hand in his, and held it through the whole cab ride back to the Muppet Theatre.


	38. Chapter 34-2

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (part two). _In which an expose' is thrown down like a Muppety gauntlet._

Rhonda threw her hands up in exasperation. _"There_ you are! Where the heck have you -"

"My aunt's dead," Newsie snapped, and the rat froze, mouth still open. "Those raggy things are responsible, Rhonda. They _must_ have made her fall, and the fall caused a lot of damage, she was so – so frail..." He choked back his grief, forcing himself to Muppet up. "We have a lot of work to do. Is the footage all compiled?"

"Well, kinda. I wasn't completely sure what order you wanted to tell the story in; I went with the slug-thing as a teaser intro –" Rhonda grabbed his hand. "Newsie, I am...I'm _so_ sorry..."

"We have to get this report out," Newsie said curtly. "People have to be warned! We've delayed this far too long already! Ethel confirmed the monsters are kidnapping people; the ones we saw on the hidden camera _were_ there against their will!"

"But why? Why would they do that? I mean, okay, I know their appetites are...disgusting, truly, but..."

"She said something about thirty-one lives, about the monsters needing so many for some...some big plan. I don't know enough yet." Newsie paced angrily, the rat watching him with worried eyes. "Let me see what you've edited."

Rhonda turned the laptop toward him, cueing up the report footage. Newsie played it, watching carefully, unconsciously chewing on his fingertips. Gina slipped into the room, and Rhonda went to her. "I am so sorry," Rhonda murmured. "He didn't have to come to work after that!"

"He's not going to be working. I just spoke with Kermit, and he said Newsie can take as much time as he needs. I think...I think Ethel's grandson is handling the arrangements, so we don't know yet about a funeral." Gina shook her head softly, seeing her Muppet intensely staring at the laptop screen. "He insisted on doing this report tonight. Please, just...help him with it. I'm not going to be able to get him home until he's satisfied with this."

"You bet," Rhonda agreed. "Uh...could be a while."

"Yeah, I figured. I'm going to go get us all some coffee." Gina touched Newsie's shoulder; he glanced up at her, clearly irritated at being interrupted, but then reined himself in when she bent to kiss him. "Aloysius...do what you need to do. I love you. I'll be right back, I'm just going to fetch coffee, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and then gave in to a hug. "Thank you."

Gina paused, unsure what else to say; he obviously wanted badly to work on this report. She wasn't sure whether this was a good thing, throwing himself so fully into it immediately after the shock of the afternoon. Muppets were beginning to fill the green room, some of them throwing curious looks their way; some greeted Newsie, and he barely acknowledged them. She stroked his hair once. "I love you. Are you going to be able to work here? Maybe it would be better if we went back to the apartment..."

"Everything's set up already. I just want to do this. Please."

"Okay, all right...I love you."

"Love you," he said, and promptly returned his attention to the screen.

Gina shook her head again, concerned, and told Rhonda as she left: "Keep an eye on him, please."

The rat wasn't sure what she _could_ do if her reporter decided to run after another lead right now, but she nodded, and climbed atop the bench next to the laptop. "So, whaddaya think? Can you work up something tonight so we can maybe tape it tomorrow, and –"

"I'm ready," Newsie said, brushing down the front of his coat, tucking his tie in smartly. "Start recording."

"Uh...you don't even have a script, Goldie. Look, I understand; why doncha go home and see what you can –"

"No. Start recording. I _need_ to do this," Newsie barked at her. Rhonda flinched.

"Uh...okay then. Lemme mic you, and set up the audio; hold on."

Newsie waited, fidgeting impatiently, while Rhonda clipped a mic to his lapel, running a wire straight into her computer and creating a new audio file in her editing software. "The clarity on this should be okay, 'long as there's not too much background noise," Rhonda told him, looking around once at the Muppets milling around downstairs. The Chef was singing at his grill, Link and Strangepork were arguing over whether Link's fingernails and hooves being trimmed and polished weekly qualified him as a metrosexual hog, the chickens were practicing their version of "Gypsy Moon" in one corner while Rowlf rehearsed "Maple Leaf Rag" at his slightly out-of-tune piano in another...and it wasn't even time for the house to open yet. "Y'know, maybe we should go up to the flyloft or..."

"Everyone please _be quiet!"_ Newsie yelled, startling the room. Numerous eyes stared, and more than a few jaws went slack. "This is a _very_ important report I have to record _right now!_ This needs to air immediately! So all of you just _shut up_ for five minutes, if that's not too much to ask!"

"Uh...anything you say, Newsman," Rowlf offered. "Is...is something wrong?"

"Uh...his aunt died today," Rhonda explained apologetically, and after a stunned pause, an outpouring of sympathetic words came from all over the room, but Newsie shook his head, holding up both hands.

"Please! Not now!" He realized finally how he must sound, and tried to soften his voice: "Sorry. Thank you, all of you, but I...I really need to take care of this right this minute. Just...please. Please give me some quiet."

Nods, murmurs. Rhonda gave him a worried look. "Newsie, hon...I don't think this is the best time for you to deal with this, okay? Look, we can do this tomorrow, it's not that –"

"It _is_ that urgent!" Newsie insisted. "Is the recorder ready?"

"Yes, but –"

"Then start rolling." His narrowed eyes and thinly-set mouth made Rhonda simply nod, and press _start._ She gave him a finger-count silently: _three, two, one...go._

Newsie took a deep breath, hit _replay_ on the footage Rhonda had spliced, and began speaking, clearly and firmly. "This is a Muppet News Special Report. The film you are seeing is _not_ a horror movie or an internet prank: this is _actual footage_ shot beneath the streets of the Bowery near Chinatown, in a secret tunnel connected to the corporate office of Nofrisko, makers of sugary snack cakes. On Sunday, October twenty-third, this reporter entered the tunnel seeking answers to a rash of disappearances throughout the city, previously reported on KRAK Big Apple News. The horror you see is what we found." He paused as the scene changed to a shot of the Nofrisko building exterior, with the SWAT vehicle parked out front. "On Monday morning, a joint investigation by the city police and the Centers for Disease Control attempted to gain access, only to find the building deserted and the tunnel walled up. Efforts to get into the tunnel have been forestalled by an apparent lack of any sense of _urgency_ by city officials; a demolition crew is scheduled to break the wall down _next_ week. Meanwhile, in the basement of the Nofrisko offices, a hidden chemistry lab was discovered. A mysterious substance there was analyzed by Muppet Labs and found to be a concentrated fear-inducing drug – which Nofrisko may have _contaminated_ their own snack cakes with. Why? It seems to have something to do with _these."_

The film ran of the slug-thing and the centipede-thing chasing them. Newsie let it proceed a moment in silence, then said, "We do not yet know _what_ these creatures are or how they came to be underneath the city, but these aren't the only ones! Our sources confirm many, _many_ more strange, bizarre, and menacing things are living in underground tunnels and caverns beneath Chinatown – perhaps all over the city!" Some of the footage Sweetums had managed to film came next, showing dark rocky corridors with monsters hurrying about. "There is a monstrous conspiracy underfoot, literally! _Hundreds_ of these horrible creatures are operating a television studio underneath lower Manhattan, which broadcasts under the station name MMN. I have already linked them to fraud, and to attempted murder of a woman named Ethel Muppman; she died a short while ago today, apparently of injuries which _may_ have been caused by two of these monsters. Further investigation on that story will be brought to you as information is uncovered." Rhonda gave him an incredulous look; Newsie didn't care. He was _sure_ the link was there, and once he found it, he'd tell the world...but for now, even a vague warning was better than silence on the matter!

He paused to think a moment as the footage continued, showing monsters running by with armfuls of camera equipment, or hustling along bound and unhappy pigs. "This secret-camera footage obtained by our exclusive source earlier today clearly shows that the monsters are indeed keeping individuals _against their will_ in this hidden base – for what purpose? We do not yet know. We _do_ know that many recent missing persons were last seen in or near tunnels, such as subway platforms, aqueducts, or utilities-access passages beneath the streets. I urge you all to stay away from _any_ underground entrance until this matter is fully investigated! If you must ride the subway, go in groups; _never_ get on an empty train or platform or ride the last train of the night. Board up any outside access in your cellars; beware of sewer or drainage tunnels! Whatever these people are being kidnapped for, no reports of ransom have yet been received, and _no one_ has been returned!" He swallowed dryly, watching the footage of the lab beneath Nofrisko. The deep claw-marks on the wall stood out starkly against the white tiles. "An expert chemist from Muppet Labs speculates that the drug Nofrisko was making, which contained _numerous_ non-FDA-approved ingredients, was for the purpose of _aiding_ the monsters by inducing an extreme fear reaction in consumers; monsters apparently enjoy eating prey that tastes more terrified! This revelation is _especially_ disturbing in light of the missing persons."

The scene shifted to the abandoned subway tracks. "An entrance to this secret compound was discovered leading from the disused subway tunnel next to the J line. We _urge_ city officials to take this threat with the same seriousness as _any_ terrorist activity! Whatever these monsters are planning, it is clearly inimical to the people of this city! Please find these furry terrorizers, and _shut them down!"_ He paused, looking at Rhonda. "Can you give me a video feed for the exit?"

"Uh...sure. Hang on." Rhonda grabbed their small videocamera, quickly setting it up on a short tripod, gesturing for Newsie to stand closer to a section of blank wall (the only bit not covered by old promo posters for various theatre acts). When she signaled him again, he took only a second to clear his thoughts before finishing the report on-camera.

"This is a sincere appeal to _all_ citizens to be on alert for these furry menaces, to stay away from any underground access which the fiends might use! And for our law enforcement to realize they have a _serious_ problem, and must _immediately_ root out this hidden nest of horror underneath us! For Muppet News and the city of New York, this is your Muppet Newsman." He didn't have to tell Rhonda to cut; she stopped the camera, shaking her head.

"Holy monster movies, Newsie. Didja really have to throw in the speculative stuff? I mean, we don't know for sure that monsters tried to kill your aunt, or –"

"They did!" Newsie snapped. "What else could it have been? She was _fine!_ Maybe a little disoriented, but fine! And –and she told me she _caught_ one of them and made him talk! It just keeps getting worse, Rhonda," he said, trying not to shout. "Worse and worse. She told me they needed thirty-one lives, that's why people have been kidnapped, some sort of plot...and that they're planning on unleashing the worst of it in a storm."

"A storm?" Rhonda asked. "Uh, Newsie, I don't think we even have rain in the forecast all week. And how could monsters make it storm? Or are they just waiting for one? _Why_ would they need a storm for anything? They're already kidnapping people and attacking anyone non-monstrous who goes down there – and we still don't know what was up with that leaky wall! Are they planning on flooding the city?"

"I don't know," he growled, tearing off the mic so he could pace. "I don't _know!_ But whatever it is, it's going to be horrible! We have to stop them!" He whirled, glaring at her. "Just get that report posted right now! We have to stop anyone else from being hurt!"

"Newsman?" Scooter called; Newsie turned to see him, Kermit, and even Miss Piggy coming downstairs, all looking worried. "Geez, I am so sorry. Is there anything at all we can do?"

"Board up the prop room," Newsie replied. At Scooter's confused expression, he explained, "Those things could get in here! Board up every possible portal to the sewers, the drains, the whole underground system! And...and ban the monsters!"

"Ban the monsters? Why?" Kermit wondered. Piggy, holding his arm, stared uncertainly at Newsie.

She demurred, "I'll grant you, their fur sheds all over the place, and some of 'em need air fresheners hanging off their noses permanently...but why would we ban them from the theatre? Monsters have _always_ been part of the show!"

Gina returned, handing a small moccaccino to Rhonda. "You have to talk to him, he's gone _completely_ overboard," the rat hissed. "He just threw stuff into his report we can't even prove yet! I have _never_ seen him treat speculation as actual newsworthy material!"

Newsie gestured at the room at large. "Where are they tonight? Did you notice that except for Sweetums, not _one_ monster is here?"

"I thought some of them were on vacation," Kermit said, startled, looking at Scooter. His second-in-command nodded.

"Well, yeah! The Mutations said they had a concert gig on a cruise line all this week; Carl called in sick; Big Mama hasn't checked in; uh, I saw Thog upstairs napping, so he's certainly not involved in anything bad –"

"Oh come on!" Newsie yelled. Gina startled him when she touched his shoulder; he untensed enough to accept the coffee she offered, but then continued to argue: "A cruise? Sick leave? When have any of them _ever_ called in with excuses like that? They're always here! And now suddenly they're not! They're all in league, all underground planning something horrible! Kermit, they're kidnapping _pigs!"_

 _"What?"_ Piggy and Kermit exclaimed. Piggy growled, "Oh I don't _think_ so."

"It's true," Rhonda muttered reluctantly. She cued up the footage Sweetums shot. "They don't look glad to be there to me..."

Piggy's fingers clenched; with some difficulty, Kermit pulled his loose from her grip. "What...hey, that's Doglion! Where...what _is_ this?" he asked.

"A secret base of monsters, underground," Newsie said grimly. "Watch the footage. Judge for yourselves. But if we don't take steps to protect ourselves...those things will be after _us_ next." He turned back to Rhonda. "Get that online. Please. Right now."

"Um, sure you don't wanna edit out the –"

"No edits! Just paste it together and post it!"

"Ooookay," Rhonda sighed, shaking her head at Gina.

Kermit, Scooter, and Piggy continued to watch the hidden-camera film. "I...I don't understand," Kermit muttered. "What the hey is going on here? Are you sure this isn't just a Halloween prank, Newsman?"

"I would _never –"_

"By the monsters," Scooter amended. "Maybe...maybe this is all just some big monster party, ya know? They do things a little differently."

"That pig was squealing," Piggy protested. "And _not_ in a happy way!"

"Look, let's...let's think this through," Kermit said, scrunching his mouth. "Why would monsters want to hurt anyone?"

Newsie shook his head. "Watch my report, Kermit. Horrible things will happen unless those creatures are stopped now! Just...just see for yourself. Ask Sweetums; we sent _him_ in to shoot this because they would have eaten _us_ if we'd tried! What do you think attacked Rhonda? Why do you think the theatre monsters are all suddenly away? They're all in on it! We can't trust any of them!" Upset, he paced the room. Gina joined him, casting a frown at him when he pulled out another anti-monsterphobia pill to try and quell his trembling at the thought of what might happen if the monsters returned here _en masse._ "Barricades," he muttered darkly, "weapons...we need defenses..."

"We need to go home now," Gina said firmly. She took his shoulders in her hands so that he was forced to stop and look at her. "You need rest." When he began to argue, she pointed out loudly: "You can't fight off a monster invasion if you're so stressed and exhausted you drop in your tracks!"

Newsie considered it, finally nodding. Gina guided him up the stairs and toward the exit. Several Muppets offered condolences on the way out; he only gave small nods to each of them, feeling tense and overcome. In the cab home, he couldn't stop more tears from flowing, but his Gypsy girl held him, and sang softly, a whisper of a tune, an old song about loss from her grandmama's heritage. Gradually he fell silent and held her, listening, soothed by the music though he couldn't comprehend the Romany words.

At the theatre, Kermit stopped the playback, frowning. "Rhonda? Is this all true?"

"I sure as heck hope not," the rat sighed. She met worried looks with one of her own. "But...paranoid he may be, crazed by grief he may be, but I have to admit...he's been right on everything we've found so far."

Silence fell in their corner. Scooter cleared his throat. "Uhm. So. Round up Beau and the stagepigs and get some boards?"

Kermit nodded slowly. "Maybe...that would be a good idea. Just as a precaution. I'm sure this is all overblown. But...yeah. Do that."

 _"Mon capitan,"_ Piggy whispered, "what do we do if the monsters walk back in? Can we trust them?"

"Sweetums!" Kermit bellowed, and in a few seconds the shaggy troll lumbered over, blinking curiously. "Guard the back door. Tell Thog to guard the front. Until we get this sorted out...no monsters allowed back in. They're all on leave as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure this is a big misunderstanding, but..."

"Hoo boy. They're not gonna be happy..." Scooter said.

"Either way, a week without that dirty fur smell sounds delightful," Piggy said. "And if they get past _those_ guys...they'll answer to _moi!"_

"I hope pork's not on their menu tonight," Rhonda muttered; fortunately Piggy didn't hear her. As the others went their way, getting the theatre ready for the show with more worries than usual on their minds, Rhonda began digitally splicing audio with video. "I wonder if Goldie's realized this'll make _him_ a target, if he wasn't already?" she sighed. "Eh, knowing him, he's already putting extra locks on the door...hope Gina can handle him." Another fact struck her, and she stopped, paws on hips, annoyed. "Oh, gawd. This means I have to go back to _my_ place tonight. Oh, man, I swear, first little pinkie that shrieks tonight is going _right_ into the breadbox and _staying_ there!"


	39. Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. _In which a nice day brings quiet reflection; Beaker is observed by some of the hotel residents; and Eustace still really hates his job._

Wednesday dawned crisp and cool; by late morning the sky was that special shade of cerulean reserved for brisk autumn days, cloudless, with the fire of trees throughout the city creating the kind of bright, wondrous contrast which made people gaze up in startled contentment, no matter how harried their life. It was the kind of day made for going out and flying a dragon kite, or raking leaves and jumping into them in a schoolyard, or suddenly _needing_ another pumpkin for the front stoop.

Gina stole a quick glance at the still figure in the windowseat of the living room, then spoke softly over the phone in the kitchen. "Thanks, Mike. I'll make it up this weekend...yeah, please do. Tell him all my plots are on top of the gel storage cabinet in the booth. He knows what I'm going for. Yeah, well...just tell him what's going on, but sure, I can owe him a coffee. Okay. I hope so too... Thanks." She hung up, took another look at her beloved, and sighed to herself. He hadn't moved in three hours, after losing the argument to march right over to City Hall and demand to see the Mayor. She poured a cup of fresh pumpkin-spice coffee, hesitated, then added a couple of ounces of similarly flavored liqueur before bringing it out to her Newsman. "Sweetie? Here..."

He accepted the mug without a word, sniffed it, and took a long gulp. As an afterthought, he handed her the cold mug which had been sitting on the ledge of the windowseat for quite some time, largely untouched. "Thanks," he mumbled, setting the fresh mug in the old one's place and proceeding to ignore it, returning his attention to the pile of papers in his lap. He didn't think anything truly useful would come of these alleged leads, but it was his duty as an investigative reporter to leave no grimy, distasteful city stone unturned...

Gina stroked a hand down his arm; he barely glanced at her. "Drink your coffee," she urged. "It'll help."

"Coffee won't stop anything," he said, bloodshot eyes locked on the page before him. Gina, worried, sat down on the sofa, watching him. Twice last night he'd bolted awake with a shout, wracked by nightmares; he'd barely slept. They'd had a terrible start to the day, with much shouting, when she'd refused to let him go running after city officials to demand they press into the subway tunnels in search of monsters. She'd had to beg before he gave in and unhappily agreed to stay home today. Now he was curled into a compact bundle of washed-out-looking felt, a heavy robe, and a throw blanket at one edge of the windowseat, unaffected by the wondrous day outside. If anything, the blue sea of sky above the gray buildings seemed to anger him whenever he glanced out at it, but mostly he'd focused on these papers, a stack of tips from the news station he'd yet to wade through completely.

Gina noticed he'd stared at one for several minutes. "Does that one look like a good lead?" she asked.

He glanced at her with a mild frown. "No...it's just as inane as the rest of them."

"Well, does staring at it for an hour make it any better?"

Disgusted, he tossed it away; it drifted to the carpet. "No." He glared out the window. A pair of small birds flitted by; he watched them resentfully. _Two million people and change out there, all having a normal day. None of them suspect the horror beneath their feet. None of them!_ "Can I _please_ check the video now?" he asked, his voice a barely controlled growl.

Gina regarded him a long moment. "Deal – if you finish that cup of coffee."

He sighed. "Fine." He took another gulp of it, fingers brushing back and forth along the edges of the paper pile. "These people are fools. Isn't there even _one_ person in this city besides me who knows what the hey is really going on?"

"Sorry, didn't realize I didn't count."

He looked up at that, chagrined enough to amend his tone. "I...of course you do. I know you do." He paused, swallowing back mingled guilt and frustration. "I know you do."

She sighed again, and fetched his Powerbook for him. As she settled it in his lap, helping him move the papers, she leaned over to kiss his forehead. "Got your back, you know."

He nodded, and after a minute added, quietly, "Thank you."

While he navigated through the _Times_ website, Gina thumbed through the stack of printed emails. "Man. This guy thinks Bigfoot is living in the park...well, guess that's not so far off," she mumbled, thinking of Sweetums' cousin with a shiver. "Here's one that says they saw Elvis partying on the subway at one in the morning. Right...the King is back, and kidnapping nubile young women for his secret love nest."

Newsie snorted. He continued to search the news site for the video Rhonda was supposed to have posted last night. "She said it would be linked to the 'Around Town' page...and there's nothing here! What the heck!"

"You know she wouldn't have blown it off," Gina chided him. "Maybe the editor decided not to link to it."

"We _have_ to get that information out! Who knows how many people they're snatching every night!" Angrily, Newsie clicked on link after link, searching the entire site section by section. He swore loudly. "Where the frog is it?"

"Calm down," Gina said. "Look, go check your email. Maybe Rhonda wasn't able to post your warning at the _Times_ ; if they killed it you know it's not _her_ fault! Maybe she's left you a note about it."

Trying to calm himself, Newsie nodded, took another sip of the coffee, and set about logging in to his email; he'd begun changing the password frequently since this investigation had begun, and it took his sleep-deprived brain a moment to recall what he'd used this time. Gina held up a sheet of paper with a half-smile. "Giant spiders nesting in the head of Lady Liberty."

"Not likely," Newsie shot back. "I think they're all under Chinatown."

"What's up with the location, anyway?" Gina wondered. "This is like 'Big Trouble in Little Muppettown' or something. Do you think they started with Nofrisko and moved underground, or took over the company because it was close to their lair already?"

"Who knows?" He knocked back a deep drink of the coffee, then sniffed at it again, curiosity roused just enough to comment. "Uh...whatever you did to this, it's good. Thank you."

"Extra-strength brew," Gina said, hoping he'd eventually forgive her the small deception. "I thought you really needed it after last night."

Newsie nodded again, then set aside the mug as his email loaded. "You're right. She emailed me. She says..." He scowled. "She...she was rejected by the Lifestyle editor at the _Times,_ so she posted it...she posted it on MuppTube?" Bewildered, he clicked on the link the resourceful rat had sent.

"I thought that was all bad singers trying to lip-synch in their underwear, and kitties playing with gerbils in plastic rolly balls," Gina said, rising to peer over his shoulder at the screen. The video, when it finally buffered and played, looked exactly as Newsie had narrated it last night. Gina pointed to a corner of the screen. "Look, sweetie! It already has over a thousand hits!"

"Great," Newsie muttered. "So less than _one_ per cent of the population has seen it...assuming they're even all from this city!" Disgusted, he closed the site, reading the rest of Rhonda's note. He sputtered. "Blanke – that – that – _no!"_

"What is it?"

His glower deepened the shadows around his eyes. "She says Blanke called her asking her to turn in her press ID until the hearing. The _hearing._ As if it's even going to be close to a fair trial! He'll...he'll fill the bench with so-called 'adjudicators' on his station payroll – or Nofrisko's! With those creeps actually in charge of things, how can we get anything like a fair shake?"

"Is he expecting you to send in yours as well?"

Newsie unconsciously pulled his robe tighter around himself, although the badge in question was in his wallet in the bedroom. "He can have my badge when he pries it from my cold, still foam!"

"Well...I won't let it come to that," Gina promised, wrapping her arms around him. Though tense, he gave in just enough to touch her skin briefly before pulling away. It was more affection than he'd demonstrated since their fight earlier, however, so Gina accepted it silently as progress. She sat back down, and with a sigh resumed reading through the 'leads.'

"Uhm. Is there...could I...could I have a little more coffee?" Newsie asked gruffly. When Gina met his gaze, he appeared contrite. He held out the empty mug. "You're...you're right. It is helping a little."

"Told you," Gina said, relieved. "Nice warm drink on a cool, depressing day." He didn't pull back when she kissed him, and he slumped with a sigh as she took the mug.

"Look at it out there," he said, his voice so quiet for once that Gina had to stop and listen carefully to hear him. "The sky's so...blue."

He continued to stare out at it as if seeing it for the first time. Gina refilled his mug, again adding a little of something guaranteed to calm him whether he wanted to relax or not. She brought it back to him, and relaxed more herself as she watched him absently sip it, still gazing up at the brilliant, arching expanse of pure blue. "It's..." he hesitated, seeking words, then finished, "It's...nice out."

She nodded, and folded herself onto the seat beside him. "You'd never know bad things were happening under something that pretty."

"Why...why is it like this?" Newsie asked, suddenly turning weary eyes up to her. "Why are _they_ doing this? Not that I ever thought they were choirboys, of course, but...why this? Why _now?"_

"My sweet journalist, I don't know," Gina murmured, taking his free hand in hers. His soft fingers brushed against hers, seeking reassurance in a touch; Gina held his hand firmly, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "The monsters at the Muppet Theatre never kidnapped anyone before now, right?"

"Right. They...well, I remember a skit where Gorgon Heap ate Wayne...and those weird, violent Hugga Wugga things always made me uneasy...things like that were pretty commonplace, but nobody was _hurt,"_ Newsie said slowly, thinking about it. "I don't know _how_ long any of this other stuff has actually been going on! It...it seems very...planned, doesn't it?"

"Organized," Gina agreed, considering. "It does."

They gave the matter some thought in silence. Newsie finished most of his second spiked cup. "Somebody is guiding them," he decided aloud. "Someone's ordering them around. They're way too chaotic to have done all this on their own. A TV studio? Alliances with major corporations? It's too conspiratorial...frankly, they're not that bright."

"Um...I think Sweetums is more childlike gentle giant than village idiot, and that's a _good_ thing in my book."

"I wish he had more to say about what he saw down there," Newsie muttered. "It was all just a big fun fair to him!"

"And it's that very innocence which keeps him safe," Gina pointed out.

Newsie nodded, reflecting that the troll was definitely an asset on _their_ side against so many fiends. Gina broached a sore subject carefully. "Hopefully...the Mayor and the cops and everyone else will see your report today. Maybe by tonight all this will be over."

"I hope so," he muttered. He stared out at a breeze shaking the leaf garlands on the flowerboxes; the golden mums Gina had planted last month looked a little worse for wear, and would no doubt be dying back soon. He tried to view that as a metaphor for the underground threat.

She waited, still holding his hand. "It looks really nice out...we could go for a walk, if you want. I have the day off. Scott's going to help with the build today, and hang lights tomorrow for me."

He felt guilty again. "You didn't have to stay home for me."

She held back the many tart comments about rushing into disaster which sprang to mind; he'd calmed, and she felt reasonably secure he wouldn't do anything embarrassing like call the FBI crying monster. Instead, she lifted his fingers to her lips, and kissed his felt. He met her eyes, appearing so sorrowful she melted at once. "I love you," she said. "Look, Newsie...maybe we _should_ go for a walk. It'll be too cold to really go outside and play soon enough; let's take advantage of it while we can. We can go by that newsstand you like on Forty-ninth," she suggested.

He shook his head slowly. "No...I think...I think I just want to stay here a while."

"Okay," Gina replied. He closed his laptop, setting it aside, and gazed out the window with nearly-closed eyes. "Want me to keep looking through those leads with you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe you'll have more luck...my eyes hurt."

She nodded, stroking his fingers; this time, he held on. Giving him a gentle smile, Gina picked up the paper stack again. She read through another few unhelpful 'tips.' At her sudden snort of amusement, he turned those tired eyes back to her, curious. She held up the information of note. "This person believes the old hotel on Doyers Street is haunted. Says she's heard moans and cries there late at night."

"Right," Newsie grunted. "More likely addicts crashing in a condemned building than spirits back from the dead."

"No doubt," she agreed. Newsie released a deep sigh that seemed to take all the remaining strength from his body. "We'll check the video again in a couple hours, okay? See if it's circulated enough, or if we should try and push it at other sites?"

"Rhonda's probably already doing that," Newsie said. He moved everything away from him except her, and lay down along the windowseat, resting his head in her lap. She tucked the Muppet-sized blanket around him, and he sighed once more. "Ghosts," he said simply.

"Do you...do you want me to try to..."

"No," he mumbled, eyes closing; wearily he pulled off his glasses, and Gina set them on the bookshelf. "No. Let her go. She's probably happier now." He shifted, getting more comfortable. "Besides...even if there were ghosts at some decrepit old wreck in this town...they wouldn't be able to tell me why a bunch of monsters have suddenly gone postal."

"I don't think they let monsters work at the post office," Gina said, ruffling his hair.

"Hmf," he grunted, just conscious enough to be dryly amused...and then his breathing slowed, and she knew he was fast asleep, finally. Gina leaned back, getting as comfortable as she could, resolved to let him sleep that way as long as possible. Maybe in a while he would be settled enough to remain asleep if she took him to bed. Maybe later her efforts to soothe him would actually work. Exhausted herself, Gina allowed her eyes to close.

Soon there were two redheads, one felted and one not, fast asleep in the glorious dappled light of a wide window on a fall afternoon.

Beaker approached Bunsen armed with real facts this time. This time, he would _make_ his comrade-in-science listen when he voiced his concerns about _things_ in this creepy old building! Honeydew turned from calibrating the transmitter which would send all the equipment signals out in a web-TV simulcast Halloween night. "Isn't it _wonderful_ they already had a digital transmitter up and running for us, Beaker? Our little scare project will broadcast to the five boroughs and beyond! Isn't that exciting?"

"Mee mo moo moo mee meemee," Beaker said, brushing aside Bunsen's dreams of fame.

Bunsen frowned. "Really, Beakie? You're going to bring up that nonsense about haunted hotels again?" Beaker shoved a thick paperback book under Bunsen's nose. "What's this? – 'Rick Steves' Top Ten Places He Had His Bad Hair Scared Right Off His Head'? Oh, honestly, now! Did you get even _one_ twitch of the needle on the PKE meter last time? No! There are _no_ ghosts in this place, unless you count old memories...which I'm sure any hotel this old and storied must carry in its crumbling walls." With a sigh, he looked at the page Beaker opened the book to and thrust at him. Bunsen adjusted his glasses. "Hmm. 'The Chinatown district of lower Manhattan is home to many _gruesome_ tales, stories of revenge and bloody opium wars and clashes between street gangs with names like the Dead Rabbits, but perhaps the _most_ haunted locale in this part of the city is the old Happy Lotus Hotel on Doyers Street. Although the tiny, crooked street _outside_ was the grim setting for so many gang ambushes and assassinations in broad daylight that it was known decades ago as the "Bloody Angle," _inside_ the once-beautiful lobby of the hotel, you get a chill simply walking on the dusty marble floors and looking up the formerly grand stairway to the guest rooms. I wouldn't recommend trying the stairs, however, as all of the floors above the ground level have been condemned by the city as dangerous since an inspector fell through a wall in Nineteen-seventy-eight.'" Bunsen handed the book back to a wide-eyed, expectant Beaker. "Well, it is always nice to know a little local history! Thank you, Beaker. Now, shall we go get the third floor hooked up?"

Astounded, Beaker gaped at him. Recovering his voice finally, he protested, "Mee meep mo _meepie!"_

Honeydew shook his head, annoyed. "I don't believe 'creepy' is a scientifically valid quantification! Now come along, grab a few of these infrared camera packs and motion trippers and let's get them in position and online, shall we?"

Grumbling, Beaker tossed away the guide book and began shoving equipment in a battered canvas satchel for lugging upstairs. "Oh, careful, Beaker. Remember we don't have the budget to replace any of this! Wasn't it generous of Nofrisko to fund our tech needs? Ah, so nice to finally encounter a company which actually respects and advances progress!"

"Meep," Beaker muttered; he wasn't certain what they were doing here actually counted as _progress._ He reached the grand landing with its ungracefully-shored-up balustrade, and realized he was alone. Looking back quickly, he saw Bunsen rummaging through boxes of brand-new computer monitors and external hard drives in the center of the lobby. "Mee! Mee meep meep me mo mee?"

"No, you go on ahead. I'll get all the monitors set up and interfaced," Honeydew said with an airy wave in Beaker's direction.

Beaker stared at him, then looked with a shiver up the turn of the stairs. The second floor had been bad enough, with its meandering corridors and tiny, cobweb-filled rooms, but the third floor seemed even darker...and then there was the attic... Gulping so hard his head bobbed down into his collar, Beaker reluctantly trudged up the creaky stairs. He remembered to avoid the loose board on the eighth step up (two nasty tumbles after having it skitter out from under his foot had implanted the location of the hazard firmly in his brain), but nearly fell when he placed a hand on the railing from the second landing to the third flight of steps and it collapsed. "Meeeeep!"

"Careful, Beaker! Try not to damage the fixtures! Remember, we can't replace history!"

Thinking they might well _make_ history here, for the most injuries suffered in a condemned building during a Muppet production, Beaker regained his footing and cautiously advanced upward, shining a thin beam of greenish light around. He wished he'd thought to bring more glow-sticks to leave as a trail to light the way back. That might not work anyway, however: the ones he'd laid down at each turn of the hallway on the second floor earlier this week had seemed to _vanish_ minutes later when he returned seeking his way out... He peeked over the steps at the third-level landing. The doors seemed farther spaced apart, and the hall quickly branched to left and right, so it was impossible to discern much. Shaking, he advanced slowly, glowstick brandished like a lightsaber, clutching his satchel tightly. Tiny swirls of dust puffed up at his every step, which upon reflection reassured him somewhat: it certainly indicated no one had tread up here in years.

Then again, ghosts wouldn't leave footprints.

He wondered if the PKE meter could possibly have malfunctioned. Didn't it seem colder up here? Shivering again, he scrunched his flat chin against the warm striped muffler around his shoulders. Was that a skittery sound off to the left? Stifling a yelp, he whirled, eyes wide, searching the dark hallway. A door gaped blackly farther down, torn or fallen off its hinges long ago. A window-shutter slapped the wall outside; Beaker jumped, and tried to peer in every direction at once. He moved back toward the stairs. Something smacked his leg. _"Meeee!"_

It was only his satchel. Realizing he'd never hear the end of it if he bolted downstairs with a full bag, Beaker shook his head and looked around with an eye more to judging the best places to set up the motion detectors and cameras. Perhaps if he moved quickly, and didn't venture too far from the stairs, he could hurry back down and truthfully claim to have put them all in place? That sounded like a plan. He pulled a motion-trigger from his bag, yanked a screwdriver from the toolbelt just under his lab coat, and fastened the sensor to a crumbling newel post. As he installed the camera and made sure fresh batteries went into everything, he had to turn his back on the hall with the open doorway.

The small, batlike thing with a tooth-overfilled mouth flinched as a huge droplet smacked its head. It glared up at the gigantic orange-furred spider clinging upside-down to the doorframe. "Quit droolin' on me!" the bat-thing hissed. Annoyed at the reprimand, the spider drew back a little into the shadow of the once-luxurious Princess Crane Suite, its preferred lair on the upper floor for its spaciousness and disintegrating bedlinens. "You can't eat 'im yet! We needsh 'em for the big night, bosh says," the bat-thing reminded the much bigger spider.

"But me so huuuungry," the spider whined. Another twelve-ounce drop of drool plashed into the dust of the doorway.

 _"Shtop_ that! You wanna make the plaish look too _clean?"_ the bat-thing scolded. It crawled back into the suite, dragging itself along by the wicked claws tipping its wings.

 _"You_ gets eats," the spider complained, eyeing the bat-thing grumpily. "You _fat!"_

"I am not!" Drawing itself up haughtily, the bat-thing waggled wings far too tiny for its round body. "I'm...big-furred. Now...shtay out of shight!" He waddled over to the circular bed and crawled into his nest in the half-collapsed box springs. "We hash to have firty-one, and bosh shays the more Muppesh, the better, sho no shnacking, Shteve! Clawsh off til the big night!" The bat fussed with the bedcover. "Eew! You been nibbling thish again!"

"Uhn-uhh," the spider denied.

"Hash too. Look, I can _shee_ the fringe ish all chewed!" Disgusted, the bat shoved it away from his nest.

Giving up, Steve the giant spider sighed, casting a longing look at the doorway. In the corridor outside they could hear the skinny, flame-haired Muppet tinkering with his electronics. "What all that for anyway?"

"The shurveillansh? Ish sho the bosh can make the whole world shee ush eat Muppesh!" The bat cackled, then remembered to silence himself. In the hallway, Beaker froze, looked around anxiously, and decided maybe the third floor only needed a _couple_ of cameras, after all. Whispering, the bat continued, "Halloween night, they'll all be trompin' froo here, and when ish time, we _grab_ 'em all and _rip_ 'em apart and ish _all_ gonna be on TV!"

"Oooo," Steve murmured, impressed. Then all eight eyes narrowed. "Wait...can'ts me wrap 'em up for later?"

"No! Bosh shays they all gotta be killed wifin, like, sheconds for his big ashenshion thingy to work – and then we take over the shi—" Catching himself with a scowl, the bat reworded, "We takesh over the whole town!"

"Neat," said Steve.

"Yep."

"But...uh..." The bat-thing sighed, eyes rolling, as his larger but not smarter friend puzzled it out. "Wait. If we rips 'em up...all the good stuff fall out." Plaintively he whined, "Me _likes_ the insides!"

"Well, then, shuck on the legsh if you want! But all firty-one needsh to be dead at the right minute or bosh won't ashend, and he'll be mad at ush! You don't want to make bosh _mad,_ right?"

"No no no," Steve murmured, drawing his legs in, cowed. "Uh...maybe they be extra tasties can save for later?"

"I dunno. I shaw the lisht today. Sho far they only got eighteen Muppesh shay they gonna be here. Dunno how many other peoplesh that weird doc got down below. May need to kill all of 'em jusht to make quota." The bat sighed. "Ish a hard world, Shteve."

"Yuh..." Silence fell in the hall; apparently the scientist had gone back downstairs. Just as well. Neither monster particularly wanted to rouse themselves since morning nappies was commencing. "Hey, Clarence?"

"What?"

"We can has cookie after nappies?"

The bat-thing sighed again. "Shure, cookiesh. Where the heck am I gonna find you cookiesh?"

"Uhhh..." The spider shuffled six of his feet, abashed. "I got some from doc. Wait! I show you!" He rambled over to a large web filling what had been the bathroom of the suite, and brought back a struggling shelled thing. "Crunchy kind, with jelly in middle!"

Clarence stared at the snapping thing trying to free itself of its webbed cocoon. "You idiot! Thash a clam!"

"Who you callin' a clam, you fat-bellied orthodontist's worst nightmare?" yelled the mussel. "Lemme outta here! My union rep is gonna sue you guys' butts inta the middle'a next _month!"_

Clarence stared at it, then looked up at the hopeful expression on the spider's face. "Never mind. Enjoy your cookie."

"Goodie!" Clapping, Steve tucked the still-protesting clam away for later. He snuggled atop the decrepit bed. After another long silence during which Clarence nearly fell asleep, Steve mumbled, "Uhhh...me can has binkie?"

"Oh for cryin' out...fine! Take it! You've eaten half of it already anyway," Clarence groaned, tossing the remnants of the silk coverlet up at the spider. A few seconds later, the sound of slurping came from the bed, as the spider curled up with a corner of the blanket in its mandibles, acidic drool slowly wearing a hole in the fabric as he sucked it contentedly. "Sheesh...all the monshtersh in the joint and _I_ gets shtuck wif the biggesht baby of 'em all," Clarence grumbled, but quietly. After all, he had no wish for his perpetually-hungry companion to start looking at _him_ as a potential cookie.

"No I do _not want a cookie!"_

The purple furry thing with heavy black eyebrows cringed back, nearly spilling the tray of gerbil meltaways he'd brought as timid tribute to the underlord. Eustace motioned him away from the door to the control hub, and the monster scurried off. The underlord fumed, glaring at one of the multitude of screens filling the curved wall before his throne. "Who? _Who took this footage?"_ the dark boss roared. One of the flickering monitors shorted out.

"It...it appearsss no one the culprit sspoke to had any inkling they were being filmed, your awfulnesss," Eustace ventured, but flinched when a heavy hand nearly collided with the doglizard's crested head.

"I can see that, you microcephalic! How! _How_ did a camera get past the guards?" The angry boss pointed at a large, scaly blue thing with pink tusks greeting the cameraman briefly, just inside the subway tunnel entrance. "That one. Bring him to me. He shall be made an _example_ of, for allowing this to happen!"

Eustace agreed: "Er...sssshe alwaysss ssseemed a bit too friendly to me, my lord."

A pause. "In any case...bring _her_ to me then, Eustace. This sort of laxity _cannot_ go unremarked when we are so close to the Dark Ascension!"

"At onsssse, my liege," the doglizard promised, turning to go, but an enormous thumb and finger hooked one of his whiskers. Eustace yelped, and immediately silenced himself, waiting, trembling, for further instructions.

"That reporter. _He_ posted this. All this is _his_ work," the boss snarled, his red eyes pinpricks of light as he glared at the screen, where a short yellow Muppet was speaking urgently and earnestly about the monsters underfoot.

"Sssshall we...ssshall we find him and kill him, my lord?"

The dark underlord rewound the clip, and listened carefully to the little nuisance Muppet's voiceover while shots of those cute little bug-things skittered past. " _Hundreds_ of these horrible creatures are operating a television studio underneath lower Manhattan, which broadcasts under the station name MMN. I have already linked them to fraud, and to attempted murder of a woman named Ethel Muppman; she died a short while ago today, apparently of injuries which _may_ have been caused by two of these monsters..." said the Muppet reporter. The boss paused the playback, one clawed finger thoughtfully tapping a massive lip, seen only in silhouette by Eustace against the dim lights of the many screens and equipment pilot lights.

"There's _one_ piece of good news, at least," the boss growled. "It sounds as though our stringy friends finally remembered their jobs! I see I won't have to punish them for insubordination after all."

Eustace reflected that the Martians probably couldn't even grasp the concept of obedience, much less _disobedience;_ they simply did whatever they felt like from moment to moment. He was relieved they hadn't been around for days, and hoped they wouldn't return anytime soon. Those things gave him the creeps: too many tentacles... He swallowed back an uneasy twinge in his belly, and asked: "He namesss the ssstation, my huge monsstrossity! What do we do about that?"

The boss noticed a large white centipede with purple fangs waiting uncertainly at his feet, and thumped his broad lap for the thing to crawl up and be petted. "Look at that, Eustace. My pet wishes to comfort me. She knows I'm upset. Isn't that sweet?" Eustace nodded, hoping this didn't mean the boss wished to pet him too. _"Loyalty_ , Eustace! This is what we demand; our enterprise will not succeed without _structure,_ without _obedience!_ Someone out there who looks like one of us and yet is _not_ with us has betrayed us." Eustace squirmed, consciously banishing all thoughts of disgruntlement just in case the boss could read his mind. One never knew... Finally the dark lord said, "Send out the strike team. Tell them to get it _right_ this time."

"Er...um..."

"What is the problem, Eustace?"

"Well...my...my liege...you know we've had him under obsservation sssome time... and...and...well...er...he ssseems to alwaysss have sssome defenssse near him, my lord. Either that dimwit Thog or the little fool troll at that Muppet Theatre are alwaysss around, and the abductorsss have not been able to gain easssy accessss to him there..."

The boss snarled. "Why do you tell me of this continual _failure,_ you useless twit? So find where he lives, and capture him there!"

"M-my liege," the doglizard gulped, "the ssspiesss report that at his home, he isss alwaysss with the sssame woman who aided in the defeat of the Muppasssaursss and the great undead ssshaman thisss sssummer...and who once threw another Muppet into a gaping maelssstrom..."

"Are you telling me," the underlord asked, his voice dangerously quiet, "that my subjects... _my_ monsters...are afraid of a single human woman?"

"N-no! Sssertainly not...they never..." Seeing those fierce glowing eyes fixed upon him, the doglizard cowered. "Yesss."

That great hand hovered over him; Eustace shut his eyes, bracing himself for the pounding...but instead, he felt the boss patting his crest and horns. "I see. Well then, my faithful underling, tell them to bring _her_ here. We can always use another life for the grand sacrifice, and perhaps she could be used as leverage to silence the little nuisance with a microphone. Leverage...or bait." The underlord chuckled; cautiously, Eustace joined in. Suddenly he was jerked aloft by the neck, choking, gurgling. _"See to it_ the strike team succeeds this time, or I shall have to _replace_ you with someone _able_ to command the cowards, you sniveling worm!" the boss roared. He flung the squirming reptilian creature out. The door slammed shut behind him.

Eustace drew ragged breaths, slowly climbing to his feet in the antechamber, humiliated and frightened. Bring _her_ here? The one who was rumored to have some sort of Gypsy secrets? Who banished a ghost, if the stories could be believed? A movement in his peripheral vision made him flinch.

The purple-furred monster offered a tray of mostly crumbs, with a few shattered bits of treats left. Apparently the rejected monster had been consoling itself out here. "Uh...cookie?" it suggested.

With a snarl, Eustace knocked the tray aside, and stalked off with a cold heart and an aching windpipe to find the strike team.


	40. Chapter 36-1

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (part one). _In which Gonzo uses eggs in his act; Snookie makes a deal with the devil; and there may be mutton for dinner._

"Plaicezz, people! _Whair_ ees mah caffeh!"

"So I says to him, 'You sure got nice teeth –'"

"T-try swallowing m-me _tonight,_ you wretch! Hah! S-spiked armor!"

"Well, that's cool, meeting a celebrity...but did you ever hear about the time a songwriter tried to mail me to Pittsburgh?"

Snookie wove through the crowd of monsters milling around onstage, all chatting loudly but apparently barely listening to one another. Ignoring them all, and giving the director's flailing cane a wide berth, he arrived at the tech table and stood reasonably still to be miked and to have some makeup dabbed on his nose and under his eyes. He drew the line at the hairstylist, shoving the goblin with a greasy comb away and smoothing down his mop himself with one hand. The audience already half-filled the bleachers, and it was still fifteen minutes to air-time. He _hated_ these live shows. Anything could go wrong... He glanced down into the performer's corral, where behind the chain-link fence, Gonzo and his pink assistant, the muscular and angry-looking John Lamb, and the slithering horror with a thousand psuedopods all eagerly awaited their turn in the limelight. Snookie shook his head. _With THESE guys, anything WILL go wrong._

He used the back-fin of a large, shimmery scaled thing working one of the boom mics to check his appearance and straighten his tie. The last one had finally become so grimy that even Pew noticed, and Snookie had been grudgingly presented with a very bland gray-and-brown tie even duller than his last one. He wondered briefly who they'd taken it from, then banished all speculation from his mind. _Better not to know. Don't get involved._ Suddenly he thought of the tough-acting Whatnot girl, and wondered what atrocity she was being forced to suffer tonight. _I...could ask around,_ he thought, then grimaced. _There's nothing you can do, no matter what it is! Don't even ask!_ But immediately his brain cycled through the list of shows which he knew either taped or went live tonight in the underground studios. _I really hope it's not that 'I Married a Monster' drek. Forced dating for reality TV has to be the lowest point since that Grouch show 'Treasures to Trash'..._ Pew yelled again, close by, and Snookie forced himself to focus on his surroundings.

"Host! Whair ees mah host!" Pew cried, grabbing one of the stagefrackles by his beaky nose. "Ah _hah! Thair_ you arrr! Wait – why are you not dressed yet?"

"That's your assistant stage manager," Snookie told him. "I'm over here." He didn't pull away in time before Pew shoved the Frackle aside, causing the unfortunate creature to reel into a chair and go down in a heap; Pew's clutching hands found Snookie's nose instead.

"Ah _hah! Thair_ you arrr!"

"I'm dressed, I'm miked, I'm ready," Snookie protested, trying to pry the strong fingers from his soft, large nose. "C'mon, lay off! Save the grabby routine for your concubine!"

"Mah _what?"_ Pew released him, startled, and Snookie quickly backed out of reach. The director chuckled. "Aw haw haw! Ah theenk mah mic-zhockay ees having a bit of zee zhealousy, no?"

"In a pig's eye," Snookie scoffed. Pew's expression briefly turned dreamy.

"Ah yes! Zee lovelay duet-colaired peeg, she is vairy sexy, no?" Pew sighed. "Ah theenk ah will give her a bottle of branday after ze show tonight!"

"Duet-colored..." Horrified at the realization of whom Pew meant, Snookie argued, "She's not a pig! She's just a girl!"

Pew waggled a finger at a nearby stage lamp, leering. "Ha hah! She tried to tell me ze same zing, but ah know what I saw! You cannot pull ze fur ovair _mah_ eyes!" He peered through the thick curtain of matted fur covering the top half of his face. "But first, we haff a show to put on! _Caffeh! Whair_ in ze name of ze grate Beel Zhatner is mah caffeh!" Muttering, he wandered off, bumping into a support pole and cursing it out roundly for a full minute. Shaken, Snookie stared after him.

 _He wants to date Constanza? –NO! No, I can't let that..._ In despair, he realized there was nothing he could do about it, short of either trying to shove Pew down a stairwell or somehow sneaking the young Whatnot girl into a different cell block...now there was a possibility. What if he bribed one of the monsters to switch the girl with one of the actual pigs? Then again, he wasn't sure there _were_ any pigs left... Brooding, Snookie paced the small backstage area behind the garishly-lit arches forming the set for tonight.

In the pit, Gonzo counted under his breath as he lined up several dozen fiendishly sharp rakes, shovels, hoes, and assorted other pointy garden tools. "Thirty-eight...forty! Excellent!" He turned to Rosie, who was performing a similar tally on egg cartons. "You didn't break any of 'em already, did you? Okay, good, good." Gonzo fretted as McGurk completed his count of the eggs. Although he'd been sure to tell the monsters to bring him only common, unfertilized eggs, he still wanted to catch them all tonight; the whole point of the act, after all, was to demonstrate to Camilla how _responsible_ he could be. "Assuming she's even watching," Gonzo sighed.

Rosie patted his shoulder. "Ahshabba shoo wabba," he promised.

Gonzo shook his head lightly. "Yeah...I hope so, pal; I hope so." Winning the competition would still be great, of course, but it had ceased to be his priority. Hoping that his chickie-love was paying attention tonight was foremost on the daredevil's mind. He forced his thoughts to focus. "Um, okay. Did you sharpen the rakes?"

"Shappa!" Rosie said, showing off the host of bandages on his fingers.

"Good, good...did you polish the shovels so they'll sparkle?"

"Passha!" McGurk showed the black stains the polish had left on his furry palms.

"Great, excellent...um...is there anything I'm forgetting?"

McGurk grinned, and held out a long purple cape to him. Shaking his head, Gonzo fastened it around his neck. "Sheesh. Thanks. I gotta get more focused if I wanna do this without a hitch."

"Hissha?" Rosie asked, scratching his head. He'd brought plenty of tools, but Gonzo hadn't previously said he also wanted gate hardware...

"Oh, it's a figure of speech. Uh...if I want to do this without making a scrambled mess all over the stage, with Whatever sausages on the side," Gonzo explained, and McGurk nodded.

"Cagabba feena wugga boo," Rosie said, pointing out the phone bank: since the first call-in-vote show, the public response had grown so immense that now two two-headed monsters and one triple-header were seating themselves at a long table, tally sheets before them, ready for the night. "Essa weeba!"

Gonzo shrugged. "Eh...yeah, that'd be cool to win, but y'know, Rosie, right now I can't get my chickie out of my head! I just hope _she_ calls in after she sees what I'm gonna do."

Rosie nodded, three eyes blinking in sympathy. "Deddibabba, boo."

Gonzo stood up taller. "Darn right I'm dedicated...and tonight she's gonna see it! I just..." he sighed. "I just hope I haven't woken up too late."

Rosie nodded again, thinking it was a shame Gonzo wasn't going to wake up to the fact that it really didn't matter if he won or not...his chickie was likely never going to see him again. Swallowing back a sour taste at that idea, the monster threw himself into the preparations once more. Under the rumble and clamor of the growing crowd as showtime neared, a whispering growl caught his attention: the stage manager goblin (the third such one since the show first aired, reflecting the mysteriously high replacement-crew numbers) informed Rosie that Gonzo would be up first tonight. As the goblin hurried off, muttering gibberish into its headset, Rosie gave the oblivious Gonzo a sad look. The daredevil's fate might well be decided in just a few minutes, and Rosie would just have to let it happen...if he didn't want to wind up impaled on a rake himself. Wasn't there _anything_ he could do for the short, blue ragged creature? Some little nudge toward fame, some subtle maneuver which would better both of their fortunes?

Nothing came to mind. Then again, the bustle of the small below-platform area at five minutes to air wasn't the best location for deep planning. With a shake of his feathery mane, Rosie tromped over to inform Gonzo he would be starting off the show. "Wonderful!" Gonzo crowed, eyes alight. "Hey, you layabouts! Help me set all these pointy things up! Rosie, those other losers will be eating their leotards when they realize they'll have to follow _my_ act! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

McGurk started to point out that _only_ Gonzo had shown up in a felt-tight sparkly red leotard, then shut his mouth and began lugging bladed shovels onstage.

The nearly-dark corridors in the lowest level of the warren, dug by mighty claws from the very bedrock of Manhattan, were almost empty; every monster who wasn't working on something had crowded into the studio where _Break a Leg!_ was filming. In the stillness, a faint breeze stirred, and two floppy-bodied creatures with trailing tentacles like furry jellyfish slowly materialized, humming.

"Wobba-wobba-wobba-wobba. Urk. Eep."

"Mmmmm numma numma numma numma. Aww _awww._ Mn." The pink thing swung its googly eyes from side to side, antennae alertly twitching down one tunnel direction; his blue partner did the same in the opposite. When both swung around, they startled and gulped their lower jaws over their heads a second before realizing they were seeing the other one. Pink thwapped Blue with a couple of tentacles. "Aww! No scare!"

 _"You_ no scare!" Blue snapped in response. Quieting, they peered around once more, seeing no movement at all; even the glow-worms seemed to have taken the night off. "Mn. Dark. Dark. Yip yip yip."

"Dark, aaawww," agreed Pink. He mulled the issue over a moment, then suddenly grabbed Blue's bobbing antennae-tips and rubbed them together fiercely, ignoring his companion's protests.

"What? what do?" Blue demanded. In reply, Pink shoved the charged little tips into Blue's own tentacles. A spark arced through them, briefly making the ropy limbs all stick straight out, and the flash of light showed them their immediate surroundings: a rocky corridor close to the control hub. Some thoughtful denizen of the deep had made a crude sign on a tattered piece of sheet metal: an octopoid-like skull and crossbones spraypainted in bright orange, with an arrow pointing toward the room where the underlord spent all his time.

"Ow ow ow," grumbled Blue. Pink began shuffle-jumping along the corridor. Unwilling to be left behind in the darkness, Blue hurried after him. When they reached a cross-tunnel, Pink stopped, but before he could reach for Blue, Blue poked his still-charged antennae into Pink's tentacles, lighting them up and making the startled monster squeak. "Mm. Aww. There. Yip yip yip. There."

Disgruntled, Pink jerked ahead of his comrade. More or less together they cruised through a widening cavern, full of piles of crumbled stalactites, shuffling and hopping down the sloping floor to a large movie screen at the back wall. Just as they were proceeding toward the tunnel behind the screen, scraping, shuffling noises sounded up ahead. Pink drew back behind a stalagmite, grabbing his friend when the oblivious Blue tried to continue. "Shh!" he hissed.

The sound, like something enormous dragging itself along a rough rock floor, drew closer and closer. The raggedy monsters exchanged a worried look. Coming down here with righteous intentions was one thing...actually _confronting_ the boss another. "What do, awww?" Blue muttered. "What what what?"

Pink worked his jaw nervously. It was too dark in here to see anything more than a few inches ahead, in the residual glow from his shocked tentacles... He jerked up straight. "Rub!" he urged, grabbing Blue's antennae-tips and rubbing them together, then releasing them to charge his own frantically. Grasping the idea, Blue fiercely rubbed his own antennae until they faintly glowed with potential energy. The dragging sound was now accompanied by a slow wheeze. "Ulp!" Pink swallowed dryly, rubbing the little nubs so hard smoke began to drift up from them. With a grunt, a massive figure came through the entrance to the secret tunnel, a whiskery thing swinging before it.

 _"Zap!_ Aww! Zap!" Pink yelled, and together the Martians swung their antennae right at the dark figure. An astounding amount of voltage coursed through them, making both jitter and yelp, but that was nothing to the shock which the monster emerging into the amphitheatre received.

 _"Waaaaagghhh!"_ it screamed. Stunned, Pink and Blue reeled aside. Blue looked up groggily and saw the dark, misshapen thing staggering and flailing large clawed paws. It was still alive! Blue grabbed his partner, shaking him out of the daze, and yanked him back through the cavern as fast as wildly skittering tentacles could travel.

"Go! Yip! Go! Yip yip yip yip uh-huh!"

Eustace dropped the sack of scrap metal he'd been dragging laboriously backwards; much of it was now glowing and fused together. It had been a heavy sack of wreckage to begin with, the remains of several monitors and one of the server racks which had fallen victim to one of the boss' angry fits, but now it was so hot he couldn't budge it. He flopped to the ground, shaking, wondering dazedly what the heck had just hit him. Stunned, he sat there, slowly prying his teeth apart; his molar fillings seemed to be _humming_ after the shock. With a hiss and crackle, the burlap sack abruptly caught fire. He watched it, unable to move, as within seconds the flammable sack crisped to nothing. The pile of metal rubble smoked for a while, creaking and cracking as it settled to an immovable heap, blocking the tunnel leading to the control hub.

Eustace stared at that in mounting despair. Now not only was he in trouble for the strike team's reluctance to go after monster enemy number one, but access to the control tunnel was nearly impossible, and there must be some kind of short in the cable from the projection screen which his sack of junk had scraped, and the pile was too heavy too lift himself...and too hot to even consider trying.

On top of all that, it took his tail and his muzzle whiskers ten minutes to relax from the straight-out-stiff position...which really, _really_ hurt.

Camilla clucked fiercely at the efforts of Black Bart the rooster to budge her from her perch atop the comfiest sofa in the green room, close to the small, fuzzy-screened TV. She told him in no uncertain terms that he could offer her the lead female role in the spooky "March to the Scaffold" dance routine tonight, he could offer her candy corn, he could offer the frogging _moon_ as far as she was concerned and she wasn't _about_ to leave her post! With a dissatisfied shrug, the rooster left, flouncing his scraggly tailfeathers. Camilla resettled her wings, clutching the remote in one claw and a cup of herbal tea in the other. She was really trying to stay calm...but the show host had just welcomed the audience, and reminded everyone that the judges had required garden tools be used somehow in tonight's acts, and now, oh, _now,_ he was announcing the contestants! She edged forward anxiously.

"First up tonight, for your puréed enjoyment, is that wild Whatever, that insouciantly insane, that ultimately uninsurable – the Great Gonzo!" the yellow-felted host shouted, flourishing a large umbrella at center stage, where dim green lights picked up the outlines of numerous sharp rakes, shovels, hoes, and edgers...all with their business ends turned toward the ceiling. As a whiff of fog spilled over the edge of the stage from somewhere in the midst of the tools, the host opened his umbrella and hurried out of the way.

"Tonight, poetry lovers, I give you – _'Gonzo, Nestlings!'"_ Gonzo shrieked, his voice echoing in the dark studio as two harsh spotlights pinned him atop a thin high-wire. "A cuddlesome compendium of defenseless eggs, extra-sharp garden implements, and _no net!..._ in verse."

Camilla stared, frozen in horror, as soft piano music tinkled in the background, eggs flew into the air in five different spots over the wicked tools, and her darling daredevil ran along the bouncing wire to catch them.

As he easily caught the first couple of eggs in his hands, the high-wire swaying only moderately beneath his bare feet, Gonzo took a deep breath, reminded himself to _project_ since the sound crew had adamantly refused to sacrifice a wireless mic for him, and began his paraphrase of the poet laureate's work. "It is possible," he recited loudly...

 _"...to be struck by a meteor_  
 _or a single-shot cannonball_  
 _while sitting on a roost at home._  
 _Safes drop from ceilings_  
 _and flatten the odd performance artist_  
 _mostly within the confines of the theatre,_  
 _so typically, we call it art;_  
 _likewise the flash of gunpowder,_  
 _the chickens toppling gracefully,_  
 _feathers on the stage."_

He waved a hand down at Rosie, who grimly packed eggs into a modified t-shirt cannon and shot them high. Gonzo danced wildly on the wire, jumping from foot to foot, frantically snatching the plummeting ovoid projectiles and tucking them all into rapidly bulging side pockets. Silence filled the studio; the judges watched in fascination, occasionally glancing at the spikes sparkling in the green lights below. Snookie kept his umbrella up in case of egg or performer hazard, peering worriedly up around its edge. Gonzo's voice sounded somewhat strained as he continued:

 _"And we know the warning_  
 _can be delivered from within._  
 _The spleen, no happy camper,_  
 _decides to spew out bile after a snack,_  
 _the smell driving all away like a banshee,_  
 _or a tiny fuzzy follicle ingrows_  
 _into the creases of the skull's canyons,_  
 _the brain a prospector,_  
 _oblivious in the mines._

 _This is what I think about_  
 _when I gather twigs_  
 _into an attractive pile,_  
 _and when I pluck a feather from my own head,_  
 _then press into muck_  
 _the sweet down of a sexy chickie—"_

Gonzo scrambled to and fro, falling once and grabbing the wire by his nose, catching eggs in between splayed toes, then finally hauling himself back aloft just in time to prevent another sort of scrambling with the next launch of eggs. He was panting now, and struggled to recall the rest of his masterpiece poem.

 _"The...the exciting hand of Death_  
 _always ready to grab me by the neck_  
 _and shake me like a dirty dustmop full of stage grime!"_

 _Big finish!_ he thought, and hoped Rosie wouldn't miss his cue. Now _this_ should really get Camilla's attention! He felt only an instant of relief when the fireworks went off as planned, Roman candles exploding right beside him in the air to illuminate dramatically his egg-saving swoops, as the wild gyrations of the wire threatened to dump him onto a waiting coal-shovel below. Gonzo yelled over the screaming explosions:

 _"Then the nest is full of marvels!_  
 _bits of twigs are like Chinese writing,_  
 _soft white underfeathers, a mattress waiting_  
 _for the consummation of our love!_  
 _Then her wattles are a redder red,_  
 _my nose a bluer blue,_

 _and all I see is the beauty of her round bosom_  
 _over an ellipsoidal egg,_  
 _the angels clucking_  
 _with lifted beaks, and the roar_  
 _of the cannon_  
 _as art and life explode into love!"_

Triumphantly, Gonzo balanced on one toe, arms uplifted, yelling the final line, and one last egg sailed up and over him. With a flourish, he leaped to catch it – and his cape snagged on the wire momentarily, throwing him even more off-balance with his leotard stuffed so full of rescued eggs he could barely breathe. The egg fell. Gonzo followed it, shrieking. The audience gasped. Snookie cringed under his umbrella, wishing he could just leave the stage without being spattered with Whatever goo. Rosie choked back a groan, staring up in horror. Beautiful Day leaned forward, eager to see some disaster around here; Behemoth's belly rumbled in anticipation of the omelette surely only seconds away; Shakey Sanchez trembled so hard his armor rattled in Hem's throat, irritating the bloated monster.

Gonzo tucked his arms and legs into a straight line, shooting down headfirst, desperate to catch the lone egg. He snapped at it, mouth open, an instant before he crashed into the rows of sharp pointy things. The impact shuddered the stage, the rakes and shovels wobbling; a few toppled. Rosie yelped, slapping a paw over two eyes, but the third remained fixed on the center of the pointy pile...where, incredibly, a blue furry hand now shakily raised. A spotlight swung down to fix in a harsh glare the crooked nose which lifted above the spikes. Gonzo removed the egg from his mouth with shaking fingers and held it up for all to see: unbroken! The crowd cheered, hooted, stomped on the floor wildly. Hem slapped the table in disgust. B.D. blinked, astonished. Snookie recovered his senses enough to offer commentary: "Wow! Uh...it looks like...it looks like he recovered every single egg, folks! What an amazingly _sacrificial_ and utterly pointless act to accompany one of the strangest poems I've ever heard...well! It appears the Great Gonzo has survived yet another round!"

Gonzo grinned weakly at the cameras, then collapsed, sinking slowly among the spikes. "...Or not," Snookie continued. "While the judges deliberate and the clean-up crew tries to get the stain out of the floor, we'll take a break. Stick around for more of _Break a Leg!_ I'm sure Gonzo will...one way or another."

Mitzi Clucker found Camilla beak-down on the floor, wings akimbo. She squawked at the top of her lungs for someone to fetch the smelling salts.

Snookie paced anxiously just offstage. Whatever his newfound acquaintance was going through right now, she shouldn't have to deal with the smarmy director's attentions on top of it. How could he possibly prevent the date from Smuggler's Cove? His gaze wandered into the audience; in the front row, he spotted Carl, who sported face paint in black and red. When he saw Snookie, Carl grinned widely and waved a large foam hand with a finger pointing up; "SHEEP YO' MOUTH!" was printed in white across the palm, and the finger wasn't the usual digit Snookie associated with the gesture for "number one." Snookie cast a look back at the director. Pew was deeply engrossed in instructing the nearest camerafrackle: "You must put in ze _duex_ shots of ze 'azelnut flavour, not _un!"_

 _That guy is the most coffee-obsessed lunatic I've seen outside of a Moldyers Crystals ad,_ Snookie thought, scowling. Making up his mind immediately, he strode across the stage and knelt at its edge in front of Carl the Big Mean Fan. "Hi!" Carl growled cheerfully. "When do we get to the bloodshed, Snookums? I'm hungry!"

"Uh...Lamb's up next," Snookie said, stifling a shudder. "Carl, I – I need a favor."

"Huh?" The gray-green monster jerked his massive head back, then wriggled a claw in one earhole. "You said _flavor,_ right? Almost misheard ya there..."

"No, no, you heard right," Snookie said, steeling himself for a deal he really didn't relish...oh, bad word choice; an arrangement he couldn't savor... Shaking his head sharply to clear the food language away, the host grimaced and blurted out: "I need you to swap out that girl with the two-color felt for something that won't mind a date with Pew!"

"You who huh?" Carl stammered. He glanced around; the other fans were arguing over who was paying for the barking hot dogs making their way down the aisle. Carl leaned closer to Snookie, who gulped but didn't flinch away. "You're asking _me?"_

"Yes. I...I don't know anyone else, really...I'll make you a deal. You can...you can use the barbeque rub. _Once._ And no separating limbs!" He stared unhappily at Carl; the monster considered it. From the stage, Pew began yelling for places; the commercial break was ending. "Please!" Snookie added.

Carl's eyes narrowed, but he gave a nod. "You're talking about the not-a-pig girl? You want her moved?"

"Moved – not eaten!" Snookie snapped. "Deal?"

"Move the girl away from old batty grabby-hands, roast you in cayenne pepper and paprika?"

"Yes. Deal or not?" At Pew's snarl, closer behind him, Snookie called, "One sec!" He stared earnestly at Carl, wondering if this was a stupid mistake; after all, what if Carl reported him to someone higher up the food chain? Finally, Carl stuck out a huge furry paw. Relieved, Snookie took it gingerly, and nearly bit his tongue when the monster shook him violently up and down. When Snookie pried his fingers out of the paw, Carl roared with laughter.

Angrily, Snookie staggered backwards, bumping into Pew. "You! Get back to your camera, you ingrateh, you wresh of an operator! You call yourself a technisshhian, hmf! Host! Whair is mah _host!"_ Pew yelled, slinging Snookie by the arm towards one of the support posts just offstage; Snookie managed to stop himself from crashing. "Ag! We arrre live! Go! Go!" Pew howled, and in trying to leave the stage, tripped and fell into the audience. "You idiots! Get back in your cages!" he berated them.

Snookie righted himself, smoothing back his hair, smiling as the spotlight hit him. "Welcome back, debutantes of demolition and cravers of carnage! Gonzo the Great just wowed the crowd with an egg-ceptional—" He stopped, frowning, and tossed away his cue cards. "I'm not reading that imbecilic drabble. Folks, despite being impaled on what looked like at least a dozen garden tools that could've been used as ninja swords by scarecrows, Gonzo seems to have lived to die again another day. Let's find out what the judges thought of his attempt at verse." He walked quickly to the judges' table. "B.D? Your thoughts?"

B.D. scowled, flipping one tassel of his Peruvian hat up and down. "Well, I'm always in favor of tall sharp objects, naturally...but I really didn't get the poem. He should've played a flute or somethin' if he was going for _artistic."_

"Hem?"

The shaggy brown thing cocked his head to one side, thinking. "Well...how should I put this...I _love_ free verse, but I was really disappointed that he caught all the eggs! I could really use more protein." His stomach rumbled, and he smacked his belly hard; Shakey popped out of his mouth. Tiny purple hands in chain mail grabbed the edge of Hem's jaw and clung for dear life. "Hey!" Hem mumbled.

"Er...Shakey?"

Trembling fingers lifted the visor of the crested helmet. "W-well, Snookie, I r-really liked the poem! What a t-touching ode to t-true love!" Nervous eyes rolled around, hands clamped over Hem's lower lip as the monster tried unsuccessfully to chew Shakey; the armor cladding the small creature clanked and creaked. "And I'm g-glad he didn't t-turn into w-weirdo-on-a-stick."

Behemoth growled and with one hand shoved Shakey back down his throat, draining the water pitcher on the table after him. "Don't the spikes on that hurt?" Snookie wondered.

"Only when he c-crunches them inside-out," a faint voice echoed from the black maw.

Shaking his head, Snookie addressed the table as a whole. "So, judges! Should Gonzo move on to the final round? Your votes?"

"Claws up!" Hem proclaimed. He smiled toothily. "Maybe he'll finally become pat for his final act! I'll give him a shot at it."

"C-claws up," the foggy voice from Hem's open mouth drifted up.

Hem smacked his belly again. "Hey, move more to the right. My aorta's got a itch...ooh. Oh, yeah, right there..."

B.D. snorted, crossing his arms. "Poems? Really? Borrrrrring. I vote claws down."

Hem sniffed. "Like you would know art if it crawled up under your stupid girly hat and swatted your fat nose!"

"Hey!" B.D. growled. "This hat was _claw-knitted_ by underprivileged mountain-tribe goat-demons! It's for a good cause!" He grabbed Snookie by the tie, yanking him closer. "You – don't _you_ think this is a great hat?"

"Er," Snookie choked out, "It's...it's a hat for a _brave_ monster. A monster skulks down the sewers in a hat like that, everyone sees he's not afraid of _anything."_

"Darn tootin'," B.D. muttered, releasing him.

"And speaking of fearless...here's the master of wooly whomping, the _sensei_ of skullcracking, the one and only...John Lamb!" Snookie shouted, hastening as far from the judges' table as he could get without running into a disgruntled director, who was just now clambering back onto the stage platform from the side.

If Lamb was still hurting from his sprain last time, he showed no sign of it as he walked onstage. The show band played a soft, lilting tune with Japanese flutes and sitar, and Lamb, with a long-handled hoe, began pretending to garden the stage floor. A floppy hat covered his face, and a monk's red shift hung to his knobby hooves. Suddenly the music shifted, a trill of danger sounding; two goblins crept onstage. They picked up a shovel and a rake and tiptoed toward the apparently unsuspecting gardener. Right as one of the goblins swung his weapon at the gardener's head, Lamb ducked, rolled, and with a swipe of his hoe knocked the goblin's feet from under him. The second one attacked, and Lamb gave the creature a savage kick and jammed his hat over the smaller thing's head, blinding it temporarily. As it fumbled, the first goblin was back on its feet; Lamb thwacked it smartly across its midsection with the handle of his hoe, twirled it, and whirled himself to face the trio of toothy monsters who now leapt into the fight. A drum pounded out a frantic beat and the flutes and sitar shrieked in terror, but Lamb remained cool, stick-fighting the challengers one after another, dodging, spinning, blocking and striking.

B.D. was reaching for a squirming shi tzu on a bun when Lamb suddenly took the fight to a new level: as more monsters crowded the front of the stage, each armed with some kind of bladed garden tool, and there seemed nowhere left to go, a scrim behind the action suddenly rose, revealing a score of shovels jammed into a wide bed of dirt inset in the platform. Lamb's muscular legs bunched and flexed, and he sprang straight up, landing with his feet atop two of the shovel poles. With cackles and screeches, the goblins and other assorted fiends followed, jumping, climbing, or slithering up the poles, and the battle continued as an aerial stunt. B.D. sat slack-jawed, staring up at the nimble ram leaping lightly from pole-tip to pole-tip and continuing to twirl and swing his hoe with deadly accuracy. Forgotten, the hot dog tried to escape by running along the table; five audience members lurched to their feet in anticipation, but Hem caught the dog and stuffed it down his throat. When B.D. looked over sharply at the muffled barking sounds, Hem appeared entranced with the stage act.

Lamb knocked his attackers away into the shadows of the studio in twos and threes until only one remained, a nasty-beaked birdlike thing with green fluffy fur and a pair of whiplike tails which it used to snap at Lamb, trying to throw him off-balance while it jabbed a pair of pruning shears at him. The drums pounded in time with Lamb's jumps, the percussion of his hooves striking the pole-tops precisely matched by the beat, erratic and driving. Carl and many other monsters cheered loudly, enjoying the martial-arts homage. When the tail-whip bird tried to use both of its appendages to strike Lamb at once, he suddenly dropped his hoe, grabbed the tail-ends, and yanked the startled monster off its uncertain perch. He swung it over his head three times, gaining momentum, then released it; it sailed out into an appreciative audience, burying three fans under the bleachers when it crashed down. "LAMB!" roared the spectators: "Lamb! Lamb! Lamb!"

The band played a final, haunting note, and Lamb, panting, bowed to the audience and the cameras...and one of the shovels under his hooves wobbled and fell. The ram tried to leap to another pole, but wasn't quite fast enough; he landed badly on his back, bearing a ragged, hunched figure to the floor. Every single pole toppled in a chain reaction, thumping on top of the unfortunate sheep. A gasp swept through the crowd.

"Arrrgh! Get _ahff_ meh, you woolleh bush of a bushido!" a familiar voice yelled. _"Why_ arr all these _trees_ by ze caffeh table? You made me spill mah latte!" A crumpled tin cup rose above the wreck, borne by a spindly hand with dirty claws. "Go to ze commersiall...and somebodeh bring me un towelll!"

Snookie faced the camera as the stage crew hesitantly waded into the mess, avoiding the cane Pew swung above his head, to try and pry Lamb from the tangle of wood. "A brilliant martial-arts performance marred _only_ by absolute _failure_ to avoid a coffee-crazed mindless maurader! Will the sheep rise after his fall? Or should the judges send for mint sauce? We'll be right back!"


	41. Chapter 36-2

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (part two). _In which Camilla gets it; the fungus fails; and the Yipyips make a big bang._

The hens backed off once Camilla sat upright, though still woozy. "Brawww," she mumbled, blinking through what seemed a haze at the TV screen, where a commercial for Mr Bog's Nose Wax espoused the benefits of keeping one's beak shiny. She kept blinking, trying to clear her vision, then heard the smoke alarm shriek.

Scooter hurried downstairs. "Aw, come on, Chef! That's the fourth time this month!"

"Hurb der hoofenklutzen en der flippencaken!" The Chef complained, waving his hat to clear the smoke from the grill.

Link backed off, protesting, "It wasn't me! I hadn't even _reached_ that hotcake I was absolutely _not_ stretching over the counter for when –" He noticed his tie was on fire, producing most of the smelly smoke wafting throughout the green room. "Aaaaa! I'm on fire! Help! Help!"

Scooter shook his head tiredly; Gladys dumped a bucket of used dishwater over the hog, drenching his naval outfit. Soggy bits of food slid over his snout, and soap suds gave him unearned epaulettes for a moment before dissolving into his jacket. "Oh, _ohhh!"_ Link groaned, examining his dripping costume. "How am I supposed to accurately portray a dashing navy captain like _this?_ I'm...I'm all washed up!"

 _"Took_ him long enough to realize," Miss Piggy muttered, setting down her teacup to sashay upstairs for the next number. A couple of other pigs snorked in amusement.

Scooter yelled at Link before running back upstairs: "Just get up here, Link! 'Sloop John B' is next onstage!"

Link's shoulders drooped as his clothes dripped. "Do you think I still look... _captainy_ enough?" he asked Dr Strangepork, who was trotting ahead in a cook's apron with a bucket of corn on the cob in his arms.

Strangepork paused, looking the hopeful hog up and down. "Isn't dere a line about somevun getting trown overboard? You can be _dat_ guy!" Chortling, the shorter pig hurried upstairs, with a disheartened Link sloshing after.

Camilla fluffed out her feathers, irritated with all the chaos. Someone opened a small window to clear the smoke, Beauregard began mopping up the mess, and the chickens huddled around Camilla to ensure she was herself again. She waved them off, clucking; and most of them returned to the dressing-roost to prepare for their number. Although Camilla was disappointed she wouldn't get to sing lead for _'The Bawking Hen of the Republic,'_ one of her favorite classic American folksongs, she needed to make sure her foolish daredevil was all right. The show returned from commercial, and while the host asked the monster judges about their opinion of the last act, Camilla replayed Gonzo's piece in her mind.

 _Eggs! All those eggs..._ She shuddered afresh at the thought of any of them smashing into the wicked tools below the high-wire; how could he have been so callous as to use _eggs_ in such a dangerous manner? Why, if he hadn't caught them -!

She scratched her underwing absently, thinking hard. But...he _had_ caught them. He'd made a _point_ of even saving the very last one, at what looked like a painful expense...and that poem... She sighed, trying to recall the words. The poem had been so...so... She blushed. "Bawwwwk," she murmured, and giggled coyly. If only she could hear him recite the daring verse again, _without_ the distracting terror of falling eggs! She glanced back at the screen in time to see the camera pan over the contestants understage, and Gonzo, standing by a weird three-eyed pinkish thing, noticed and waved wildly for the home audience. He prodded his monster assistant, and the creature reluctantly waved too. Before the view cut to some sort of slimy fungus thing, Camilla saw Gonzo mouth the words, _I love you Ca—_

She sat straight upright, startled. Oh. _OH!_ That stunt...the eggs...the poem...the _eggs!_ Suddenly, she _understood._

At the thump, Mitzi peered around the canteen counter, where she'd been trying to finish her interrupted couscous salad. She saw the unconscious hen, sighed, and with a grumble went to fetch the smelling salts again.

John Lamb was borne out of the studio by a host of straining Frackles, each of them calling dibs on the chops; Hem had to be restrained by B.D. not to follow, and now he sat frumping at the table, using a piece of Shakey's chainmail to wipe the drool from his chin. "We may have just seen the loss of another contestant," Snookie announced, "But as long as he's still alive, remember, your vote can keep him on the air one more week for the championship round! Vote as often as you want; these guys need all the pizza money they can get."

"Mutton pizza..." Hem muttered longingly.

"Vote for your favorite! Vote for your wife's favorite! Vote for the contestant least likely to survive! Your vote counts an infinitesimal amount next to the favoritism of our management but hey, keep trying!" Snookie urged the audience; some of the house crowd already had their cell phones out and were tapping keys rapidly. "Will the Great Gonzo advance? What will Mungus Mumfrey do to follow those two amazingly suicidal acts? Will your choice resurrect the mighty Lamb, or –" Snookie paused, seeing a creeping figure in a black hooded robe making its way behind the platform, a scythe in one hand and a fresh garnish of spearmint in the other. "Uh...never mind. So, before we see what the Finnish fungus has up its thousand sleeves, let's enjoy some retro rambling about seriously saccharine self-expression, sung by Frazzle with his Frazztones!"

Snookie stepped off the stage as an orange-furred monster with curving horns, black fuzzy eyebrows, and so many teeth and a broad tongue filling his mouth that he couldn't shut it if he tried took the center spot, dancing happily. A small four-piece rock band of fat blueish creatures with shaggy heads played the 'fifties-era classic, and the lead singer nearly swallowed the mic:

 _"There's a monster name of Frazzle who's a good friend of mine;_  
 _he looks ferocious but he's really fine!_  
 _Go up and ask him for his autograph;_  
 _he'll be so happy that he'll start to laugh!_  
 _He goes..."_

 _"Haaaabbbbblllll!"_ yelled the orange monster, shaking his head rapidly. Snookie ducked the flying spit from that slobbery tongue; an elderly groupie in the front row shrieked and swooned.

 _"That's how he laughs,"_ sang the band. _"He goes –"_  
 _"Aaaaaluhluhluhluh!"_ screeched Frazzle.  
 _"That means he's glad; he goes –"_  
 _"Aaaaaablblblblblbl!"_  
 _"That means he's having the greatest time that he ever had!"_

"How is the closed-caption guy going to _spell_ that?" Snookie wondered, keeping well below the level of the platform to avoid any more rock-star effervescence. He grabbed a bottle of water from the staff cooler, noting resignedly that although the bottle had a designer label, he could see little bits of gunk floating in it. "Great. They're refilling 'em with showerhead water again." With a sigh, he uncapped it and took a swig. _At least it isn't from the city park sprinkler system this time._ He figured by now he was probably either full of or immune to most of the waterborne parasites common to the tri-state area. _Hope Constanza isn't drinking this stuff..._ He edged around the corner of the platform to peer out at the audience, washed now in flickering lights spilling over the stage from the rock band as the performance dragged on. He couldn't see Carl anywhere. _Did he leave to sneak her out of her cell? Cripes, I should've specified where he should move her to!_ He cursed himself soundly, silently, a long moment for neglecting that aspect. _He'd better not harm her...or put her where someone else can..._

He shivered at that. After all, there were _far_ worse things down here than an amorous ex-pirate show director. A glob of wet something smacked his cheek; disgusted, he wiped it off, and sank below the level of the stage once more. _"Aaaaaablblblblblbluh!"_ Frazzle screamed over the cheers of the audience. Snookie drew his shoulders almost up to his ears, trying to block the sound out as he continued to scrub at his cheek with a semi-clean hankie.

Oh yes. _Much_ worse things.

Two levels beneath the soundstage, a ragged blue thing and a raggier pink thing conferred in hushed voices in a dark crevice. "Mmn. Aww. What now? What what what?"

Pink jerked his whole body from side to side with anxiety and doubt. "Need big boom! Mm. Big. Big boom. Yiiiiip. Yip yip yip yip uh-huh."

"Big boom, yip yip yip, awwww," Blue agreed, then poked his companion. "How? How boom?"

Frustrated, Pink zipped in erratic jerks and stops around the tiny hole they'd found to hide in, near the back of the cavern with the huge screen. "Aww! Boom. Boom. Uh-huh. Uh-huh!"

"Stop! Aww! Stop!" Blue said suddenly, and Pink skidded to a halt, tumbling tentacles-over-eyeballs. Righting himself, he stared every which way in terror.

"What? What what what?"

"Dizzy," Blue said, holding several tentacles to either side of his eyeballs. He used his lower jaw to wipe them slowly. "Mm. Nom. Mn. Bet-ter. Yip yip."

Disgusted, his comrade resumed his zigzag pacing, albeit at a slower speed. Blue, struck with an idea, tapped Pink's head. "Awww _aaaww!_ Boom boom sticks in glass room! Aww. Glass room."

"Awwww _aww,_ " Pink said, recalling what his friend meant. "Yiiiip yip yip yip! Uh-huh! Yip yip!"

As one, they hummed loudly, wavering from side to side, and gradually dematerialized.

"So, our last performer tonight, the fungus with a thousand hands, and he doesn't bother to ever wash _any_ of 'em – your fiend and mine – the slithering slime, Mungus Mumfrey!" Snookie shouted, gesturing grandly at the other side of the stage. The fungus reared up, waving psudeopods in all directions. A mix of cheers, boos, and cries of _"Shroom! Shroom!"_ came from the audience. "For this act," Snookie continued, "the fungus has requested some help from the audience. A member of our staff will be coming around with a supply of sharpened shovels and shears; please take one and pass them down. Come on, guys, there's plenty for everybody," he scolded as two large beasts five rows back broke into a clawfight over who would get the tree shears. "The object tonight for our foolhardy fungus is simple: get to the other side of the stage within one minute...in _one glob."_

As realization of their role dawned on the crowd, a roar went up. Several stage lights shook on their beams. Glancing nervously up, and absurdly wishing he still had the umbrella though it would be no protection at all, Snookie waited for the noise to die back somewhat before continuing. "That's right, when Mungus starts across the stage, heave those implements of dismemberment with all your might – but please aim _at_ the stage, folks, not the judges." B.D. scowled, standing up briefly to impart his disapproval to anyone suicidal enough to consider it. "Remember, Mungus has set itself the challenge of passing your gauntlet of garden tools mostly whole, so get ready to hurl and separate! On your mark, get set –" Snookie dove off the stage, knowing someone inevitably would throw early.

From the judges' table, Hem shouted, _"Hey!_ Who threw that?"

 _"Go!"_ Snookie yelled, and winced, ducking completely below the platform as the sound of a dozen or more sharp implements _thunked_ into the surface and the band struck up a wild chase theme.

The fungus swirled, splitting itself briefly to flow around still-quivering gravel rakes, pausing when some of the tools speared its globulous body to split and re-form, advancing across the stage at a much faster pace than anyone would have guessed possible. Seeing this, the audience renewed their efforts; at least twenty tools all landed right in front of the fungus, blocking its way, and then two or three impaled it. With a shudder that was grotesque to behold, Mungus peeled its component cells off the tools and out of the holes in the platform, and in two separate masses flowed around the impediments. Shovels, rakes, and open shears hammered the stage, most sticking fast, a few toppling over, and still the fungus flowed. A large digital clock above the stage counted down the remaining seconds: twenty...eighteen...fifteen...

The fungus surged forward like a slippery tidal wave, globbing over itself continually, sliding around each pointy thing thwacking into the platform, headed right at the finish line painted a few feet from the in-house band, who were playing their fur off and almost out of breath. Just as the slithering entity shoved a psuedopod across the line, a brick sailed out of the crowd and pinned part of the fungus. Desperately it yanked free, but as the buzzer sounded, a few loose cells had to crawl around the object to rejoin the main body of the amorphous thing.

Boos sounded from the bleachers. B.D. shook his head and immediately displayed a downturned thumb. Hem frowned. Shakey raised his visor, peeking from Hem's shoulder unnoticed, appearing glum as well. Cautiously Snookie stepped back onstage. "Oh, no! Looks like the frothing fungus didn't _quite_ make the deadline, and left his _part_ under fandom's brick throw! Heh heh." He chuckled at his own pun; not like any of _these_ morons would catch it – "Whoa!" He ducked as a wheelbarrow bounced onto the platform and went over him, crashing into the seven-foot-tall purple guy with the trumpet. _Or maybe one of them did._ "With only three contestants left, what will happen next? Judges, sound off!"

"Left, right," Hem growled. B.D. shot him a look. Flustered, the brown monster scratched his flat chin. "Er...sorry. Weekend warrior with the Sixty-fourth Bigmouths. You know, two Saturdays a month and they paid for my Fright School..."

"Whatever," B.D. grumped. He shook his head. "Snookie, that was the _lamest_ act we've seen in several shows!"

John Lamb, supported on either side by Frackles trembling under the weight of the large ram, yelled out, "I'm still in it to win it, you mutha—"

"Second lamest," B.D. amended. "I vote claws down! He didn't get all of himself across the finish line!"

"I h-hate mushrooms," Shakey stammered, sticking his tiny arm out of Hem's collar. "Claws down, because it m-made me s-sick."

"Aw, _geez,"_ Hem complained, rolling his eyes. "Didja _have_ to?" He frowned at the fungus, wobbling slowly into a more or less upright pose, its weary cells churning restlessly. "Well _, I_ thought it was creative, even if it didn't quite meet the deadline; I think this guy...uh...is it a guy? Does anyone know?"

Snookie shook his head, shrugging. Hem shrugged back, and finished, "I wanna see what it can do in the final round. I vote claws up!"

"O-kay!" Snookie said, turning to face the nearest camera directly. "It seems all our remaining contestants are still in the running, with mixed reviews from our monster panel! It's up to you to swing the votes! Call the number on your screen to vote for the performer you'd most like to see crash under the weight of their own _hubris_ on Saturday, and tune in tomorrow night for the results! I promise more danger, more daring, and more dustmop-related injuries next time – here on _Break a Leg!"_

In the pit behind the stage, Gonzo waved at the camera, then scoffed to Rosie, "Sheesh. I don't know why they're even bothering to take a vote!"

Rosie looked from him to the badly limping sheep being helped offstage. "Uh...bagabba brokka lamma?"

Gonzo blinked, puzzled. "Huh? No, I wasn't even talking about him, the poor sap; nah, if _he_ tries to compete one more time with me, it'll be a Lamb to the slaughter for sure!" Gonzo laughed; Rosie noted the gaggle of drooling monsters trailing after the staunchly-stoic fighter, some waving notepads, some kitchen knives.

"Hey Mr Lamb! Can I have an autograph?"

"Can I have a leg?"

Rosie winced. Gonzo, his attention fixed on changing out of his costume so it could be washed, tossed his cape over the pole of a rake balanced between two boxes, and used it as a screen. As he threw clothes over the cape at Rosie, he continued, "I mean, why are they bothering to vote at all, when it's _obvious_ who the ultimate winner is gonna be?" An embroidered hankie followed the leotard. "Look how they cheered for me tonight! That was _fantastic!"_ Eggs began flying over the screen; a startled monster grabbed an empty paper carton and caught them as fast and as well as he could. One, then another, splatted on the ground; with a grimace, Rosie tried to nudge them out of the way with a foot, then realized the smear was still fairly plain to see, and used Gonzo's hankie to wipe up the mess. Gonzo nattered on: "Do you think Camilla saw me? Man, I hope she's watching! Did the camera catch me telling her I love her? Could you tell?" An assortment of mini Frisbees, an unlit Roman candle, and two pairs of fuzzy handcuffs sailed over the screen. Rosie wondered how the heck Gonzo had fit any of that in his pockets. "Hold this a sec while I re-tuck, would you?" Rosie started as Gonzo handed him what looked like blue-furred tights. Eyes wide, arms full of assorted stuff, he waited baffled while grunting noises came from the other side of the screen. "Ungh...I think I need to lose a couple pounds...Speedos getting a little tight here...okay. Give 'em back." Rosie quickly handed the leggings over. "Thanks. Man, oh, man, we _killed_ tonight, Rosie! You did _great_ with the egg-cannon and the fireworks!" Gonzo abruptly whipped his cape off the pole and around his shoulders once more, grinning hugely at his assistant. "Hah _hah!_ We have this thing locked _up!_ Now if only Camilla would ca-ca-ah-ah-ah- _choo!"_ Frowning, he sniffled, one hand at his beaky nose. "Ugh. I swear I must be allergic to fungus...hey, gimme back that hankie, would ya?"

Rosie McGurk looked in dismay at the filthy cloth tucked snugly into the pile of weird items filling his arms.

The biology lab was silent, only a few LED pumpkin-lights strung from one low-ceiling corner to another illuminating the space. Two tentacled things shimmered into existence atop a counter strewn with unwashed Petri dishes and various evil-looking surgical implements. Pink jerked back when a tentacle came in contact with a cold metal jaw-opener. "Awk! Mm. Uh-uh, uh-uh!"

Blue's round eyes swung up and down and back and forth, seeking the items he knew were around here somewhere. "Awww...boom stick, awww. Oaaw!" Perking, he poked his partner. "Loooook! Look look look!"

"Uhhhmm?" Pink peered in the direction Blue pointed. "Aaawwww! Boom stick! Yip! Yip yip yip yip uh-huh!"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh!" Blue chanted, doing a small happy dance. They both bounced around a moment, excited. Pink hopped jerkily over to the stand full of test tubes. Some were filled with greenish goop; some had a slowly fizzing pink liquid; still others roiled with some sort of bacterial sludge with motion of its own. The Martians stared with unblinking eyes at the wide range of choices. "Hmmm." Blue tentatively touched one of the sludgy tubes; the substance within reacted, recoiling from the sides. "Awww...which? Aww?"

"Mn. Awww. Hmm." Pink studied one, then another, his antennae twitching. He grabbed one each of the pink fizzie and the green goop.

Blue stared at him, curious. "Awww. Boom?"

Slowly Pink poured the green stuff into the pink stuff; it fizzed more, and both creatures instinctively gulped their jaws over their heads...but nothing exploded. "Aww. Eh-eh-eh-eh," Pink judged, shaking his head. "No boom. Nope nope nope."

"Hmmmm," Blue mused. He put a stopper into one of the yellowish sludgy tubes and shook it rapidly, then, holding it well away from himself, uncapped it. A tiny shriek sounded, and the sludge slopped around inside the tube, but nothing else happened. "Mm. Nope. No boom. Noooope nopenopenope."

Both of them hummed, sinking into what passed for deep thought. "Hmmmmmm."

A noise at the small door opposite the stairwell exit startled both creatures. "Drat it all, never a deformed assistant around when you need one... Thatch! _Thatch!_ You were supposed to bring me that golem extract an hour ago! _Where_ is that –"

"Augh!" Blue cried, flinging the tubes he held at the tall, skinny thing with goggle-eyes and a lit lantern emerging from the dark inner room.

"Waaugh!" Pink howled, throwing the rest of the rack of tubes in the same direction. Both of them instantly wobbled and hummed and vanished.

Glass shattered all over Van Neuter, protoplasmic goop combining with rudimentary flammable colonic bacteria; Van Neuter froze, frightened, slowly turning his gaze downward. Trickles of thick liquid, shifting color and texture as they went, traveled _up_ his lab coat. He swiped at them with a glove. "Ack! Shoo! Shoo! Get off me! _Bad_ bacteria! _Bad_ bacteria! Ugh!" When he'd managed to get most of it off his coat, it coalesced into a glob and began slithering toward a rathole under a counter. "Hey! I didn't say you could _leave!_ Get back here!" The newly-created thing paid no heed, disappearing into the wall. He heard a startled squeak, then skittering sounds as a chase began somewhere beyond the sheet rock.

Van Neuter groaned in frustration. "Arrgh! A _brand new_ life form, and here _you_ stand, you big ninny, still holding this stupid lant—" He swung the candle-in-a-glass-box around, intending to set it on a table; hot wax spilled out, hitting the smear of slime still on his coat. The vet froze again, eyes widening behind goggles not tinted enough to shut out the flash.

 _BOOOOOM!_


	42. Chapter 37

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. _In which the frog checks out the word on the Street; not all lock professionals are named Smith; and the kidnapping expedition is locked out._

A cold wind out of the northwest blew clouds in until Thursday morning looked more like an evening; by noon the sky was so overcast and the wind so biting that Kermit wished he'd worn something even warmer than his old trenchcoat. Glumly he climbed the subway station stairs, one flipper grasping his fedora tightly when a chilly gust threatened to steal it. "Stupid fall weather," he grumbled. _Should've gone on that perfume ad shoot with Piggy yesterday; it was gorgeous...we could have had a picnic in the park..._ Sighing, Kermit looked around once at the top of the steps to get his bearings. The dime store on the corner had been replaced by a dollar store, and the ads on the walls at the intersection were different, but as he peered against the wind he could see the familiar outline of the spruced-up brownstones which indicated the start of the street. _His_ street, once upon a time. Glad that he still recognized it, and feeling vaguely guilty that he hadn't visited for a very long time, the frog steeled his shoulders and tromped into the wind toward the signpost which had served as a beacon to many.

Kermit wasn't sure whom he should seek out first; the younger monsters, he was positive, had nothing to do with anything horrible under the city. He was fairly sure the more mature residents wouldn't sink so low either...but then again, the Newsman had shown him what appeared to be proof of terrible crimes going on, and a few of the Muppet Theatre's regular monstrous performers _had_ seemed to be involved.

The frog wasn't sure whom to trust anymore.

Consumed in these thoughts, head down against the wind, he almost bumped into a purple monster on a pogo stick. "Whoooaaa! Hey, watch out, mister!" The orange nose wrinkled a bit, and the eyes went wide in worry as the monster dismounted his bouncing toy to grasp Kermit's shoulder. "Hey, are you okay? Sorry about that! I was trying to practice my boingarooney when this awful wind –" Kermit looked up, and Telly startled, dropping his pogo stick. "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Is that really _you,_ Kermit?"

"Uh, yep, yep...it is," Kermit nodded. "Hi, Telly. How are you do—"

"Hey everybody! It's Kermit! Kermit's back! Hey!" the excited young monster yelled. He banged on a nearby garbage can at the foot of a brownstone's front steps – a city waste ordnance violation if ever Kermit had seen one, and one which made him quirk a wry smile. _Some things don't change._ The cranky voice which shouted a reply even before the lid to the can slammed open didn't sound as though it had changed, either.

"Heeeyyy! Knock it off! I was about to take my ugly rest!" A scraggly green head arose from the trash can, and dark brows furrowed at a frantic Telly. "Hey, kumquat-nose, what gives?"

"Oscar! Oscar! Look! Look, Kermit's back!"

The Grouch swung around, startled, then gave his former neighbor a frown. "Well, well, look what the wind blew in with the rest of the trash!" He sneered, but Kermit wasn't buying it. The very fact that the Grouch bothered to speak to him indicated he, too, had missed the frog.

Kermit smiled. "Nice to see you again too, Oscar."

"Hmf!"

Telly trembled, hovering at Kermit's shoulder. "Does...does this mean you're moving back?"

Kermit sighed. "Sorry, Telly, no. Listen, it's great to see you both, and I'm really, uh, I'm sorry I haven't visited in a while..."

The Grouch cocked his misshapen head to one side. "But lemme guess: this ain't a social call."

"No. I'm sorry." Nasty-tempered as he could be, the trashcan resident might have a better idea than most whether anything untoward was going on among the monsters around here. "Oscar, I have some serious things I came to ask you guys about, and, well, um..."

"Serious!" Telly exclaimed, shaking. "Oh, no! Is...is Wall Street coming here?"

"What?" Baffled, Kermit stared at him.

"Well, I, uh...I heard my mom watching the news the other night, and they said that Wall Street was full of robbers out to steal our rights to assemble things, and Kermit –" He grabbed Kermit's arm anxiously. "I have a model triangle I've been putting together! Those robbers won't come steal it when I'm done assembling it, will they?"

"Uh, no, Telly." How the hey could he approach this with such an innocent? "Look, Telly, I heard that...that some of the monsters who work at my theatre might be...uh...might be getting in with a bad crowd, who want them to do bad things."

Telly cringed. "Are _they_ going to try and steal my model triangle?"

Oscar waved a grungy hand at the youngster. "Scram, kid! Us grown-ups have some _serious_ stuff to talk about! Now beat it before _I_ grab your stupid triangle! Heh heh heh." He grinned as Telly retrieved his pogo stick and hurried off, casting nervous glances behind him every few steps. Turning back to Kermit, Oscar asked, "So what's up? Did you need to come film a cautionary tale about just saying No for the naughty monster thespians?"

"Oscar, this is serious," Kermit said, scowling.

"So you've said about twenty times already! What's the big deal? And why don't you hop around here any more? Finally got sick of the goody-goody stuff, huh? Well how wonderfully grouchy of you!"

"Oscar, _knock it off,_ or I'll...I'll paint your can with pink polka-dots, and it'll be the happiest, most _cheerful_ trash can in the five boroughs!"

"Okay, okay, geez," the Grouch grumbled. "Can't blame a guy for being trying."

Kermit stepped closer than he really wished to the battered waste-heap, avoiding a soggy, rotten banana peel. _How does he still get away with this stuff, anyway?_ "Look...something _is_ going on with the theatre monsters. Something that looks pretty dangerous...and I need to know if anyone _here_ is involved. I mean, it seems unlikely, but..."

"Oh, well, if it's _dirt_ ya want!" Oscar said cheerfully. "Lemme see...uh, Telly has been running illegal trapezoids, Cookie is in rehab for junk food abuse, and the two-headed guy is working the phones for one a' those nine-hundred numbers!"

Kermit blanched, and the Grouch chortled. "Heh heh heh! You should see your froggy little face right now! Whadda chump." He shook his head, grinning. _"Duh!_ They're _kids,_ frog! Whaddaya _think_ they're up to? They play, they sing, they learn about numbers and letters and...yeeeesh. I get sick just _thinking_ about it."

"So...so nothing out of the ordinary?" Kermit asked, relieved under his irritation.

"Regrettably, _no."_ Oscar gave him a sour grimace. "It's all as sickeningly _pleasant_ as usual. Now if you have nothing better to do than waste my time, scram! See if _I_ care if you never write us!" With that, he slammed the lid down, vanishing into the bowels of the trash once more.

Unsure whether he should pursue the matter further here, and feeling very guilty about anyone else spotting him under these circumstances, Kermit looked around. The wind, fiercely chilly and now with a hint of rain blowing past, made him shiver and wonder if going into the store down the street would be a good idea or not; everyone would have questions, they'd want to chat and catch up, and as lovely as that sounded, now was not the time. _Maybe...maybe you could invite them over for early trick-or-treating this weekend?_ He knew Piggy wouldn't be thrilled at the idea of a house full of children, especially when several of them were large enough to knock over things...like the 'fridge...or the foyer chandelier. _But maybe just ask them to drop by the theatre for a treat, to show them we haven't forgotten... Things have just been so busy!_ Sighing, he trudged onward, turning up the lapels of his coat against the wind.

"Pinwheels! Get your pretty fall pinwheels right here! Pinwheels so you can see the wind blowing – hey – watch it – hey come back here!" a familiar scratchy voice yelped; Kermit looked up exactly in time for a large paper pinwheel to smack him across the face. He struggled with it, finally prying it free of his damp nose, when the blue monster in a carnival barker's vest and straw hat caught up. "Aha! _There_ you are, you naughty pinwheel! Ah, sir! I see you are clearly an enthusiast of this _classic_ and useful item! With this, you can tell whether it is _windy_ outside!"

"Grover, I think the stuff being blown all over the street is a pretty good indicator of just how windy it is."

"Oh! _Froggiebaby!"_ With a happy cry, Grover threw both arms around Kermit, squeezing him hard, the pinwheel hurtling away forgotten. "Oh I am so _happy_ you are back! Oh, let me _hug_ you and _hug_ you and –"

"Groffmf," came a muffled voice.

"Oh it is so good to _see_ you! We have all missed you _very much_ around here!"

"Groffrr!"

"Oh I cannot _wait_ to tell everybody you are here! This is so _exciting!"_

 _"Grover!"_

"You do _not_ have to shout in my ear, froggie baby," the blue monster said, yanking his head away from the half-smothered froggy mouth. "I know you are as happy as I am, but I have sensitive eardrums, you know."

"Grover, it's nice to see you too, but I don't have time right now for a big homecoming. I actually came to ask about...about..." He wasn't sure how to approach this. "Um, look, is there somewhere we can go to talk without half the street interrupting us?"

"Oh, of course!" Grover, clapping his flimsy hat to his head with one furry hand, led Kermit to the scant shelter of a closed-up vendor's cart; the leeward side of it offered a little protection from the wind, but not much. "There we go! Oh, I wish you had told us you were coming by; I could have asked my mommy to bake a cake or something."

Kermit frowned, pulling his trenchcoat tighter around his chilled body. "Grover, someplace _out_ of the wind?"

"You said someplace where people would not bother us," Grover pointed out. "You did _not_ say somewhere out of the wind. And really, isn't it a beautiful day for pinwheels? Just look how they – auughh – oh nooo! Come back!" Before the distraught monster could chase after the toys now spiraling down the street, Kermit caught his arm.

"All right, all right, look. I just...I can't stay long; I just needed some questions answered," Kermit tried to explain. "Questions about...monsters on Sesame Street."

Grover paused, then leaned closer to murmur, "Kermit, you were here _how_ many years and you did not think to ask about monsters _then?_ I would have thought _you_ would have been more observant of your surroundings."

"I know there _are_ monsters! I know _all_ of you here!" Kermit snapped, then wrested his impatience under control. Somehow, he knew, the adorably furry blue monster had a way of bringing that reaction out in people... "What I _need_ to know is: are any of the monsters on Sesame Street going underground to some sort of...secret monster base?"

Grover blinked, stared, and then patted his old friend on the back. "I never knew you were under such a strain, froggie baby! Why don't we go into Hooper's for a nice cup of hot chocolate?" He looked around. "It seems to be a _little_ breezy and wet today."

"Grover...look, my mental state has nothing to do with this conversation! Last night I saw proof that some of the monsters from my theatre are doing something under the city, something involving secret tunnels, and game shows, and cages..." He shook his head. "It looks worrisome, whatever it is, and I just wanted to see if you guys had heard anything about it, all right?"

"Secret underground base...cages...tunnels...hmmm. Nope, not me," Grover said brightly after a moment's consideration. "I have been _busy_ with a new job with Charlie's Catering Service, however, so it may have slipped by me. Uh...I could ask SuperGrover for you!" He smiled. "We are very close, you know."

Kermit shook his head. "That's...that's okay, thanks." He sighed. _Well, it wasn't very likely any of the monsters here would be involved in kidnapping or imprisoning anyone!_ Still, he was relieved that they didn't seem to know what he was talking about.

"I _did_ cater to a game show last week," Grover went on. "Oh, it was very _exciting!_ The singing, and the dancing, and the acrobatics! Froggie baby, you should have _seen_ the aquarium balancing act! It nearly made me forget I was supposed to be waiting the judges' table!"

"Glad to hear it," Kermit mumbled. Should he press on, and talk to more of the monsters? It seemed highly unlikely that any diabolical plots would be in play here. "Well, listen, Grover, if you should hear of anything suspicious, please let me know, okay? Oh, and...ah...why don't you tell everyone to drop by the theatre this weekend for some early trick-or-treating? And..." _Oh, what the hey._ He felt guilty enough about this visit having to be so brief; he knew if he stayed long enough to say hello to everyone, he'd get corralled and mobbed and likely never make it back downtown before showtime...and he really did want to check on Scooter's progress in securing the theatre...and he had half a mind to run down the absent monsters and see whether they really _were_ AWOL or just busy or sick. But here were old friends, dear friends, even if some of them could be repeatedly annoying. "Why don't you guys come see the show this weekend? Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. I'll tell Pops to let anyone in free who lives here on the Street."

"That would be very amusing and entertaining, Kermit! I will be sure and tell everybody! _Heeeyy everybodeeee!"_ he yelled suddenly, startling Kermit. Just as suddenly, a loud ringing came from Grover's vest pocket. "Oh! Oh, wait, that might be the temp agency; I have to answer that. Excuse me, froggie baby," he apologized, and tried leaning against the cart to block the wind noise. "Hello? Yes, it is I, your cute, furry, loveable employee Grover!"

Kermit scrunched down below the top of the cart, hoping no one had noticed Grover's primal scream. No such luck; another furry blue head poked around the corner of the cart, large googly eyes rolling wildly. "Cookie?" the monster asked hopefully.

"Uh, hi, Cookie. No, no, sorry, we have no cookies today," Kermit replied while Grover listened attentively to his phone. He winced when the rotund, shaggy heap of a monster brightened and threw his arms open for a hug.

"Froggie! You back! Oh, this _almost_ as good as a cookie!" Cookie Monster exclaimed, hugging Kermit. "Oh! Oh, this so wonderful! We should have _celebration!_ We should have... _cookies!"_ He gave a speculative look to a wheel of the cart; Kermit patted his hand, distracting him.

"Uh...not right now, Cookie, okay? Listen, have you heard anything about monsters under –"

"I am off to work!" Grover said, shoving his phone in a pocket. "Do not worry, Kermit! I will tell everybody of your very generous invitation to your place this weekend! I am sure everyone will come and you will have a wonderful party!"

"No; no, Grover, it isn't a party; I just said you guys could –"

"A person in desperate need of a lockmonster awaits!" Grover cried. "I must fly to their assistance immediately!"

"A lockmonster?" Kermit asked.

Grover shrugged. "Well, I told them my name is not Smith. _No_ time to chit-chat, froggie baby; I am sorry, but you will _have_ to wait until this weekend to hear all of my _wonderful_ stories about the catering business at your house party! I must fly! Up, up, and away!" He gave a small jump in the air, but remained grounded. "Hm, that's strange...up, up and _away!"_

"Grover –" Kermit tried to correct the house-party misapprehension, but the monster was intent on his nonflying problem.

"Oh, silly me, I am wearing the wrong uniform! Excuse me!" He trotted over to what had to be the last phone booth remaining anywhere in Manhattan, and swiftly re-emerged dressed in a pair of gray coveralls, holding a tool box, and sporting a red cape. "And now – SuperLockmonster to the rescue! Up, up and _awaaaayyy!"_ Leaping high, he flew straight up – and crashed into the top of a street sign. Hanging from the sign, he dazedly tried again: "Up...up...and awayyy..."

Kermit shook his head, watching the blue-and-gray streak sputter and dart crazily from sidewalk level to the top of a building as Grover randomly traversed the street and left the neighborhood. Cookie offered sagely, "Me always wonder how he get insurance."

"Mm," Kermit agreed. With a sigh, he turned back to the baked-goods-obsessed creature. "So listen, Cookie, do you know anything about monsters living under the city who seem to be...ah...seem to be doing bad things?"

The monster scratched his head. "Uh...they doing bad things with cookies?"

"No, I very much doubt it."

"Then it hold no interest for me. Good to see you again, frog." The monster, heading away, paused. "Uhh...you want to see if Bert and Ernie have hot cocoa? And...and maybe doughnut?"

Kermit gave him a curious look. "Doughnut? Not cookie?"

Cookie shrugged. "Variety...spice of life."

Gusts of rain spattered the windows; the Newsman gazed unhappily out at the change in weather. _Gina will make me take garlic,_ he thought, grimacing. Still, swallowing a pill, or perhaps drinking the fresh herb minced into a cup of hot broth, was far better than the castor-oil preventative his mother had used for just about everything. It was also assuredly better than trying to breathe through stopped-up sinuses. He chastised himself for complaining, and turned his eyes toward the street nine floors down. _Where on earth is the locksmith? It's been almost an hour! I guess the word 'emergency' isn't in this company's vocabulary._ Every muffled tread in the hallway last night, every dimly-heard car honking in the street had caused him to jerk awake, terrified of monsters bursting through the door. Gina had agreed to his plea for better security, although she'd pointed out that the lobby had a coded entry lock, and black-and-white patrol cars cruised the street below regularly. Hell's Kitchen hadn't been a bad neighborhood for over a decade, since many of the old buildings had been renovated and sold to more upscale tenants. Had Gina's grandmother not left her this place, it would have been out of price range for a theatre technician...certainly more than the Newsman would have been able to afford. _Especially since you currently have no salary,_ he thought, scowling.

He paced the living room, trying not to think about his suspension. A few minutes ago, he'd turned on the TV to see the protesters on Wall Street and in Zuccotti Park arguing with the cops who were forcibly removing their generators, citing safety concerns, as the cold rain came sheeting down. He itched to be down there, braving the elements to deliver up-to-the-minute coverage of the situation. However, surely the monsters were alerted to his investigation now; what if they were watching him? He shivered. The authorities _had_ to take aggressive action! Had the Mayor seen his report? He glanced at the phone, fingers clenching unconsciously, then sighed. _Four thousand viewings this morning...and no way of knowing if anyone in a position to DO something about it has seen it._ He'd already left two messages with the Mayor's secretary's assistant, but no one had called back yet. _What if they don't do anything at all? What if the monstrous plot to take over the city continues unabated? How can I stop them?_

Anxious, Newsie paced, wrapping his arms around himself. He checked the apartment's thermostat. He wore a thick fall cardigan over his usual undershirt and dress shirt, and the thermostat claimed the apartment was a comfortable seventy-two degrees, yet he felt chilled. _Maybe it's the rain._ Gusts of water had been randomly splatting against the windows a good hour now, clouds turning the sky dark which had been so clear and lovely only yesterday. Remembering his aunt's admonition about a storm, Newsie pressed his cheek to the glass and peered out and up, but it didn't seem to be actually _storming_ per se, just intermittently raining.

As he squinted through the windows, he spied a darker object against the clouds. It narrowly missed the older apartments and converted factory buildings as it quickly approached. Newsie didn't realize it was heading right for him until it was too late to do more than duck and cover. _"Aaaaaaaagghhh!"_ screamed a high voice, one broad pane of glass shattering, as the blue flailing thing came hurtling into the living room.

"Waaaahhh!" Newsie yelled, throwing himself to the side; he bounced up frantic for a weapon. Grabbing the first thing he saw, he whirled to confront the intruder.

"Tah _daaaahh!_ It is I, your friendly SuperLockmons—"

"Aaaagh! Out! Out, you fiend!" Newsie cried, swinging the stubby weapon. It clanged off some sort of knight's helmet the creature wore, making them both stagger back.

"Oww! Sir! Sir, wait! Stop! Just a – whooaa!" The blue monster in the red cape ducked Newsie's second swing. "I think perhaps he has had too much coffee," the monster muttered, then grabbed the TV remote when Newsie tried to attack him with it again. "Sir! Sir! Please! Is this any way to greet a helpful lockmonster who has come to solve your dire security problems?"

"Get out of my—" The Newsman halted, panting, words sinking in. The monster wasn't attacking, wasn't baring fangs or claws or anything except a toolbox. _"What? Who_ are you exactly?" Newsie demanded, trying to catch his breath.

The blue furry creature drew himself up straight and struck a pose, arms akimbo. "Sir! Do not tell me you do not recognize the extremely helpful SuperLockmonster whom you yourself summoned! Is this not apartment nine-oh-six?"

"Er...yes..."

"And did you, sir, not call for a lockmonster?"

"I called for a lock _smith,"_ Newsie corrected, warily looking the strange monster up and down. The cape clashed with the plain gray coveralls, and the helmet had more dings and dents in it than the old metal toolbox the monster plunked onto the coffee table. The monster, however, was shorter than the Newsman, with a round pink nose, a bit of a potbelly shape below skinny shoulders, and absolutely no teeth in his wide round mouth.

"Well, we cannot _all_ be named Smith, you know! Now! I am here; how may I be of service? Did you wish a new lock on your breadbox?" The blue furry thing eagerly looked around. "Oh, what attractive art you have hanging on the walls! Is that an original Mucha or a reproduction? Oh, well, I suppose it does not matter; of course you would want to protect such nice posters! Can I interest you today in our Super-Deluxe Home Art Guard Alarm System, sir?"

"Why did you crash through the window?" Newsie asked, his initial panic giving way to a growing anger; chill wet wind blew through the shattered pane. "How is _that_ making my home more _secure?"_

"Oh! You have a _hole_ in your window! Not to worry, sir; this SuperLockmonster always aims to please! I will have that window secured for you in a jiffy! Here, could you hold this? Thank you – now, _where_ is my tape measure..."

Newsie stared astonished while the monster rummaged through the tool box now cradled in Newsie's arms, tossing aside a chalkline, a pipe wrench, and a twenty-four-piece set of miniature screwdrivers. Quickly the coffee table, then the sofa, then the adjacent floor was covered in more tools than even Gina owned. "Er...uh...you're really a locksmith?" Newsie asked dubiously, watching the cheerfully furry monster darting to and fro next to the window with a flurry of hammering noises.

"I keep telling you, sir, not _all_ of us are named Smith. There! How do you like your new, _secure_ window?" The monster proudly gestured at the formerly light-giving panes which took up most of the outer wall; he'd boarded them over haphazardly with one-by-fours, crown molding in an egg-and-dart pattern, and a couple of bands of aluminum screwed in place. The actual windows were completely hidden.

 _Oh my frog Gina is going to be ticked,_ was the first thing that came to mind. Newsie paled. "But – you can't even see outside!"

"And no one will be able to see _in_ and be tempted to steal these fabulous art posters!" the lockmonster argued happily. "Is that not more _secure?_ Does this not make you feel better, knowing no one can come climbing up the building to break in your windows?"

"Erk," Newsie gulped.

"Well, there you are, sir! No need to thank me; it is all in a day's work for a SuperLock—"

"I _called_ because I wanted more locks put on the front door!" Newsie choked out. He shoved the toolbox at the bewildered monster. "I thought maybe some bars on the outside of the windows, or something – not boarding them over! And I mainly wanted another deadbolt for the door!"

The monster shrugged. "Well, sir, I do not think it very likely that anyone can see _through_ your _door_ and want to come steal your posters, but I am here to please!" He trotted to the kitchen. "Ah! I see your problem! Why, how can your door be secure when you do not even have a door _here?_ Do not worry! I am prepared for _all_ security discrepancies!"

Newsie grabbed the monster's skinny arm before more invasive construction work could commence. "That's the _kitchen!_ It's _supposed_ to be open! _That_ is the front door!" He pointed the monster at the apartment's only door to the floor's main hall. "I just want a deadbolt! Do _not_ board up anything else!"

The blue monster gave Newsie a long stare. "All right, sir, my hearing is perfectly good; there is no need to shout." He examined the front door, peering closely at it from jamb to kickplate, _hmming_ and _aha-ing_ a couple of minutes. Newsie waited, fidgeting. Finally the monster nodded. "I see your problem, sir. While this door already has a knob and a lock, you will need something more _thorough_ to _ensure_ your apartment is protected from any art poster thieves! Do not worry, I handle this sort of thing _all_ the time, sir. Stand back; I would not wish you to be injured by flying hinge pins."

"W-what?" Newsie stammered, but the monster shoved him back a step and went to work, sawing and squeaking and asking for a tube of WD-40 from the toolbox and suddenly standing back, panting, covered in sawdust. Newsie blinked; had the creature really moved that fast?

"There you are!" Newsie stared, eyes wide, at the small hinged panel with an enormous padlock now centered in the door at Muppet eye-level. "Isn't that better? Now you will be able to _lock_ your door's security window so that prying eyes will not be able to see your art posters! They will have _no_ idea which wall the Mucha ad for absinthe even hangs upon! Hah _ha!_ Does that not make you feel _much_ more secure, sir?" A friendly blue hand patted Newsie's shoulder.

"You...you cut a hole in the door!"

"Technically, it is called a porthole, sir."

"You cut a _hole_ in the _door!"_ Newsie yelled. "That is _not_ more secure!"

Puzzled, the monster pointed out the padlock. "But you can _lock_ your security porthole so no one can see inside, sir. If you wish to _see_ who is trying to steal your posters, you can always look _out_ the porthole, of course..."

Newsie felt like tearing at his hair. _"I don't care about poster thieves!"_ he yelled. "I care about the _monsters_ who are trying to take over the city! I care about _horrible giant bugs_ trying to _eat_ my friends! I care about freakish rag-things trying to _murder_ my aunt!"

The monster blinked. "I think you have more issues than can be solved even by a SuperLockmonster, sir." Newsie turned away, trying to contain his fury. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder again, and glared back into sympathetic eyes. "Dealing with deep-seated nightmares can be difficult... Have you tried Hare Krishna?"

"Is this the right place?" a wolfish monster growled softly, squinting up at the backstage entrance to the theatre. The trio had already been to two other theatres today only to discover someone back at base had given them the wrong GPS coordinates.

The fat, sniffling goblin, almost completely muffled in a thick burlap scarf, grumbled back, "Why do you even look at signs? You can't read!"

"I'm up to Q in the alphabet," argued the wolfish thing, showing its two-inch claws to the smartmouthed goblin.

Piranha-mouthed, slinking Slurg silenced them both with a hiss: "Shut up! This is the right one." He studied the door, beady eyes narrowed under feathery black brows. After their first mission had failed, Slurg in particular had been angling for another chance to prove to the underlord how useful he could be; these two losers would be content to lay somewhere stuffing their bellies when the great aboveground takeover happened, but not _him._ Slurg very much wanted a commanding part in the New Monster Order. He curled his toothy mouth up in his best attempt at a smile. "Nowww...we must find a way in, and overpower the target, and drag it back to base!"

The wolfish monster exchanged a look with the doubtful goblin. "Uhh...about that, boss..."

"Captain Slurg!"

The goblin rolled its eyes; fortunately the strike team captain couldn't see them beneath the layers of gardening insulation fabric. _"Captain_ Slurg," the wolf-thing corrected himself tiredly. "Look, I mean, we ain't afraid a' nothin'...but..."

"She beat up Scribbler," the goblin ventured. "I saw it in the _Goblin Gossiper."_

"So?"

"She can banish ghosts just by lookin' at 'em," the wolf-thing added.

Slurg sighed impatiently. "So? We're not ghosts!"

"She has magic cards!"

"You know what they say about red fur!"

"She summoned a demon to fight a dinosaur!"

The wolf-thing corrected the goblin with a waggle of a claw. "No, no, you got that one mixed up: she summoned a _magician_ to fight a _chicken."_

"That doesn't even make sense!" Slurg snapped. "Who _cares_ about chickens? Who cares about dinosaurs or gossip hacks or magicians? Since when are _cards_ weapons of any kind? And _not_ everything they say about red fur is true! I should know; my fifth ex was a redfurred kinkajou! Now let's get on with this!" He spat in the dirt of the alleyway. "I'm ashamed of you both! You call yourselves _monsters!"_ Slurg grabbed the doorhandle, though he had to stand on tiptail to do so. "Now let's get in there and—"

The door abruptly flew open, and a tall man with white-blond hair and numerous tattoos glared at them. All three monsters froze.

"Hey! Audition in progress! Can't you guys read?" The tall man jerked a thumb at a notice taped to the door. "Either pipe down or move out before I come out here and explain the idea of _courtesy_ in a little more detail!" With a final glare at the trio of startled monsters, the man returned inside and the door slammed.

The goblin shrugged. "Ah well. We tried. Let's go home."

Slurg grabbed the traitor by his neck – well, attempted to. It was difficult to even _find_ a neck on a goblin normally, much less one wrapped up like a roasting turkey against the cold rain. "You idiot! We can't go back empty-clawed now! Do you know what the dark lord will do to us if we fail him _again?"_

The goblin and the wolf-thing glanced at one another again, and shrugged. "Uh...no?"

"He'll...he'll..." At a creative loss, Slurg threw his hands in the air. "Well, it'll be...never mind what it'll be, because it'll be horrible! It'll be painful for all of us, you moron! Now...now start looking for another way insi—"

"Hey! Keep it down out here! Don't make me call the cops on you!" shouted a younger man with a clipboard as he flung the door open; again, they froze in astonishment. Stuffily, the man adjusted a pair of lightweight glasses. "We are _trying_ to hold an audition in here! Honestly, hasn't anyone heard of common courtesy anymore?" At a shout from inside the building, the young man yelled back, "Right away, Mr Malkovich, sir!" The door banged shut behind him.

An idea popped into Slurg's fevered brain. "Heeeyyy! I got it!" When the others stared at him dumbly, he pointed to the audition notice. _"Monsterman!"_

Understanding dawned. The goblin perked up. "Yeah...Monsterman!"

The wolf-thing snickered, nodding.

A few minutes later, a somewhat baffled Slurg perched atop the goblin's shoulders, gesturing broadly onstage in a ragged long coat while the wolf-thing struggled to keep his balance on two legs underneath. "To be...or not to—"

"Thank you, we'll call you if we need you," an authoritative voice spoke from somewhere in the center of the audience seats. "Next!"

"But wait, I wasn't even to the good part yet," Slurg protested, but the next hopeful actor was already hustling onto the stage.

 _"Next!"_ the unseen director yelled, and the strike team shortly found themselves tumbling back into the alley in a mess of burlap scarf, moldy old coat, and mussed fur. The door slammed behind them.

Slurg snarled. "You'll be pounding on _our_ door before long, you two-bit Olivier wannabe!"

The wolf-thing groaned, staggering to four paws. The goblin tried to rewind his scarf around his head, shivering in the cold muck of the alley. _"Now_ can we give up?"

Disgusted, Slurg began pacing, wracking his belabored brain. There had to be _some_ way to get to the Gypsy woman their lord and master wanted captured. He growled to himself. _Darn it, it's always so much harder when we have to grab them alive!_ Ignoring the wind, ignoring his whining subordinates, the toothy monster grimaced and paced, paced and scowled, but could imagine no scheme likely to get them close to their unsuspecting prey this time. He wouldn't give up, however...not when his place in the new pecking order demanded success! He hadn't realized he was grumbling aloud until the wolf-thing asked, "Uh...is the boss gonna peck us for failing? I didn't know he had a beak."

After five minutes, the goblin gave up trying to intervene and just let Slurg strangle the wolf-thing with the remnants of the coat.


	43. Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. _In which a bachelor blob loves Susan (all the Susans); votes are tallied; and puppets are boxed._

"Hallo! An welcome to zee premierrr rromantic show on ze televeezhon! Ah am your host, Incredibly Handsome Pew!"

The camera cut to a shapeless blue blob in a tuxedo. "Last tahme, our beseeching bachelor Gustar was having much trouble deeciding between zeez duex amazeeng blonde bombeshells, so we gave zem both ze _special_ beauty makeovair!" A clip from the previous show ran while Pew sauntered vaguely in the direction of a faux pillar on the posh mansion set. "And aftair zat, Gustar picked ze one who had ze most work done! Wow, what a fabulous makeovair! Doesn't she look much more extreme now?" He patted a potted fern, then started back. "Oh! Excuse-moi, Gustar! Ah deed not know you wair ovair here!"

"Uh, I'm over _here,_ Pew," the blob gurbled from the opposite side of the set, standing next to a leggy blonde with a Fracklish beak and demure, googly blue eyes. She posed in her teeny bikini on what might have been the arm of the blob.

"What ahr _you_ doing on ze set? Go away, or ah shall _taunt_ you to ze best of mah abilitee!" Pew snapped at the fern, then made his way confidently toward the voice of the blob. "So! Gustar, mah friend, do you think zis fragile beauty can fulfill all your slahmiest dreams? Is she indeed _monstruous_ enough for – aagh!" Pew's shins encountered a low tufted ottoman upstage of the main set, and he beat it thoroughly with his microphone a few minutes, spitting curses. The blob and the girl waited, confused, until the shambling green-scaled thing yelled _Cut!_

"Durn it, Pew, stop hitting the props!" the creature from the fat lagoon grumbled in a thick swamp accent, removing his headset long enough to waddle on set and steer Pew away from the furniture. "Just do your danged intro, and let's get into the challenges!"

"Ah _waz_ doing mah intro! Zis clumsy oaf keeps getting in mah way!"

Sighing, the director shambled off. "Camera two, on Gustar; camera three on Babycakes there...and...action!"

Straightening his back into his usual hunch, Pew gestured at the wall behind the blob. "So, Gustar, do you zink that this lovely creachair is indeed ze one you wish to spend your whole lafe with?"

The blob rumbled, a ripple coursing through its jellylike body. "Oh, definitely, Pew! Susan here is perfect for me! I love that cute little beak –" The girl, with a giggle, leaned over and bit the blob sharply. "Ow! Huh huh...and her venom makes me all wriggly inside." On cue, the girl spat a stream of sizzling fluid that diffused once it penetrated the slick skin of the blob, and it jiggled all over. "Aww, honey, stop that! Wait for our wedding night!"

"Well! Zat is good to hear, mah flabby friend, but tonight, you will have anozer girl to challenge zis sweet patootie!" Pew whirled, flourishing a hand at the second camera; behind him, a curtain opened and a very reluctant young woman in a tank top and shorts was shoved onto the set by barely-glimpsed furry hands. "Meet Susan! Ahh mah blobby bachelor, who will be ze girl who wins your heart? Er, zat is, assuming you have anything like a heart in zat glob of pudding. Who will our bachelor choose? Stay with us, and find out, you shameless voyeurs! It's up next, on _Ah Married a Monstair!"_

The new girl protested as the cameras cut, "My name's not Susan! It's Audrey!" Then she saw the shifting, rolling blob as its ten randomly spaced eyeballs began ogling her, and screamed. Her flight was halted by a couple of large furred hands behind the curtain, which shoved her back on-set.

"Morty, keep the fodder in the picture, okay, if that ain't such an issue?" the director groaned. "Okay, everyone set up for the girl's profile. Gustar, you wait over there, and we'll shoot the taste test next, all righty?" The gilled monster took a long gulp from a massive convenience-store cup, and looked around while the crew moved into position. "Where's the vet?"

"Oh, right here, right here; I didn't want to interrupt such artistic genius," Van Neuter said, waving. He stepped forward, and Pew sniffed the air.

"What is zat _delicious_ barbeque? Shicken? Roast pork?" Pew murmured, orienting his body to follow his nose.

"What the hey happened to _you?"_ the director asked at the same time, taken aback.

Van Neuter waved dismissively, chuckling. "Oh, uh, nothing! I just...uh...was experimenting with flammable things again. It's just a flesh wound." The normally pale-cream-felted Muppet glowed a bright pink all over, and had swaths of loosening bandages wrapped around him under his severely charred lab coat. A smug-seeming Thatch McGurk trailed after him, carrying a Gladstone bag. "So! Ready when you are, and you'll be so _excited_ when you see what I've cooked up today! She should break out in multiple legs and beady crab-eyes!"

"Great, fine. Stand by to shoot 'er up," the director monster said, turning away unimpressed. "Okay, we set yet?" The camera and sound Frackles gave claws-up signs, and the potbellied fishy monster resettled his headphone over a finlike ear. "Okay, Pew, do your – Pew! Stop licking the lab tech! Come on, monsters, _focus!_ We only have this studio for another two hours!" Sighing, the director plumped himself into a sagging chair, and gestured at the techs. "Roll film...aaaaand action!"

"Sorry...ah thought you were someone else," Pew apologized to a very insulted McGurk, and hastened back to center focus, blundering over one small pink Frackle trying to tape down the cable for another front-light. "So! Susan, tell us a little about yourself! Has it always been your dream to marry a monstair?"

"Wh-what is this place? You – you can't be real! There's no such thing as monsters!" the young woman gasped, struggling to lean away from the leering Pew, but she'd been chained hand and foot to the ottoman. She jerked back when Pew tried to sniff her hair. "Get – get away from me, you – you – disgusting _thing!"_

Pew chortled. "Isn't she a _dahling,_ _mon amis?_ Ahh, pretty black-eyed Susan, eh? Just look at zat gorgeous green fur!"

The girl glared at him. "What are you talking about? My eyes are brown! And my name isn't Susan!" She jerked hard at the chains. "Let me _go,_ you creeps! When my boyfriend hears about this, he's going to kick your a—"

 _"As_ ah was saying," Pew continued, "zis lovely young creachair has an opportunity to go home with our swinging bachelor tonight – _if_ she has ze talent, ze looks, and ze yumminess to win him ovair! So, Susan, I understand you have always _longed_ for a handsome pirate to come sweep you away?"

The director put a hand over his bulbous eyes. "Great. He's hittin' on the contestants again. Someone distract him please?"

"Pyoozza bagga breddah!" Thatch complained to Van Neuter, wiping down his wet feathery mane where Pew had tried to find the source of the barbeque scent.

"Well, what do you expect _me_ to do about it, give him some mouthwash?" the vet returned crossly. "Now stop complaining! A _hundred_ other monsters would _kill_ to have your job, you know! Heh...some of them _have,_ but then there was that incident with the giant lobster...oh never mind. Just get the serum ready, would you?" Van Neuter cautiously rewrapped some of the gauze over the burns on his left pinkie finger, wincing. "Oww...and go fetch me more aloe after this!"

Meanwhile, the blob had joined Pew and the trapped girl and was peering closely at her from all sides, his jellied body stretched to allow all of his eyes a good look. "Well, I don't know, Pew...I mean, if it's true she can cook, I'm all for that...but just look at Susan!" He angled part of his blobbishness back at the Frackle-beaked girl, who now seemed to be sprouting catfishlike mustaches. "Just look at how much she's changed to please me! How can Susan measure up?"

"My name is _not_ Susan!" shouted the terrified girl on the ottoman, cringing away from every clammy touch of blobby fingers.

The first Susan tossed her head proudly, showing off her flowing blonde tresses. A couple of them began hissing and slithering over her head. "Ah agree, zat Susan is much prettier," Pew nodded, "but what about if we give your new girl an extreme monstair-over?"

"Ooh! Oh, that sounds sexy!" the blob exclaimed, quivering. "Show me! Show me!"

"Doctair! Our next challenge will involve being able to crawl on ze ceiling!" Pew said as Van Neuter did his best to look presentable and stepped into the frame. "Can you help zis poor girl achieve that so she may compete to marry zis monstair?"

"Why, certainly!" Van Neuter cried happily, brandishing the huge syringe which Thatch handed him. "Ow...sorry...fingers still a little sensitive, heh heh... Hi there sweetie! Are you ready to be so _beautiful_ it's _scary?"_

The director urged the soundfrackles to amp up the receivers to capture every note of the shriek which followed.

Riding his Segway back to the staircase, Van Neuter smiled broadly, though it hurt his burned cheeks to stretch the muscles. "Well! That was _fabulous,_ don't you think, Thatch? Did you _see_ those prickly feet all poking out of her ribcage? How _genius_ of me to use the wooly caterpillar extract this time!"

"Fabba," Thatch agreed dully, panting as he lugged the bag alongside the gliding doctor. He paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to the lab, eyes narrowing as he contemplated dragging the heavy equipment all the way up.

Van Neuter stepped off the Segway and handed his ride pass to the sullen, shaggy parking attendant to be punched. "Come on, Thatch, don't shilly-shally," Van Neuter said brightly. "Let's go!" He held his arms open, waiting, but McGurk only gave him a disgusted look. Van Neuter grimaced. "Oh, come on! You don't expect me to walk up _all those stairs_ in this condition, do you? Come on, monsterback, let's go!" Grumbling, McGurk knelt and whuffed out a harsh breath as the vet cheerfully climbed on his back for a ride up. The short purple monster staggered to unsteady feet with Van Neuter's legs crossed over his chest, his hands grasping McGurk's horns; it didn't help Thatch's balance when Van Neuter bounced impatiently. "What's the hold-up? I need to get back to the lab and make notes on this _wonderful_ triumph of science! Giddy-up!"

A straining monster had managed twenty-five steps up, his legs trembling with effort, clutching the bag in one paw and the rough wall of the staircase with the other, when Van Neuter's phone rang. "Oh! Oh! Hold still, Thatch; don't want to walk into a dead spot, reception is _so_ tricky down here – Hello! Hello? Who is it?"

The chill voice on the other end of the call made Van Neuter sit up a little straighter, putting even more stress on Thatch's shoulders. "I hear you may have perfected your serum, doctor. Is this correct?"

"Oh! Uh, yes! Yes I did! Oh, your dark underarmness, you won't be disappointed!" Excited, Van Neuter giggled. Thatch stifled a groan, trying not to collapse, but his knees were shaking.

 _"Excellent._ Bring it to me at once."

Immediately realizing the consequences of imperfection, Van Neuter squirmed. "Er...um...well...that is...I _think_ it works. I mean I'm _pretty_ sure."

"The hour grows near, and my patience dwindles, Van Neuter," the underlord growled. A passing centipede, hearing the subsonic tremors of that voice even over a cell phone, squeaked and fled. "Is the serum ready or not?"

"Well, uh...I...I just want _one_ more day to observe the effects, Mr Slipperypants, sir, if that's all right with you," Van Neuter begged. "See, I finally thought to cross the wooly caterpillar material with those poisonous conch specimens, which slowed down the process and allowed better manipulation of the _inner_ cells, which, heh heh, as it turns out was the problem all along! See, the serum had been mainly affecting the _subdermal_ layer, not the actual bone marrow, and so –"

 _"I don't care about your silly psuedoscience!"_ the underlord roared; Van Neuter cringed, and Thatch wavered; he tried to plant his feet better, and his claws scrabbled on the wall for balance. "Just come to me within twenty-four hours with a _working_ formula, or else your next experiment will be to discover how many gallons of acid it takes to _dissolve_ you from the inside out in under a minute!"

The connection cut off. Van Neuter recovered what he could of his dignity with a protest: "Wuh...well _honestly!_ Some people don't understand the delicate nature of my work! I mean, it takes hours and hours of trial and error to find just that _perfect_ balance of—"

Thatch's foot slipped on the slime coating the stairs. "Waaaaagggaah!" he yelped. Van Neuter screamed like a girl, and the duo went tumbling past the parking attendant, who snarled and gave chase. _No one_ could just waltz past without having their ticket punched!

Gonzo paced the corridor, waiting to be allowed on-set. In just a few minutes, the results show would begin filming, and he would discover whether the audience had vaulted him into the final round of the competition. Rosie McGurk watched him with two eyes, the third darting nervously at the guard dog blocking the other end of the corridor outside the largest studio MMN had. "Do you think she voted?" Gonzo asked, the mostly-grown-back feathers atop his head bouncing as he wore a trench in the rock floor. "Do you think she saw my act, Rosie?"

"Shabba," Rosie assured him, his attention more drawn to the four-headed Doberman with a scorpion tail engrossed in gnawing a large and misshapen bone. The chains securing the beast to the wall didn't look all that sturdy to McGurk, and he worried that if it became bored or hungry, it might try some monster and Whatever bones out instead.

"Aw, man, the tension is killing me!" Gonzo yelled, making the dog look up. "Why can't they just open the studio and let us _in_ already?"

"Uh...Gazza..." Rosie gulped, trying to get Gonzo's attention; two of the dog's heads were orienting on each of them.

"I mean, come on! What are they doing, mopping the stage? At least let us sit in the audience until it's time for the show!" Gonzo continued to vent, banging once on the studio door.

"Uh...Gazza!"

The dog slowly stood up; it had to crouch its massive shoulders just to fit in the tunnel. Rosie heard a sickening scraping sound, and realized the giant stinger of a tail was wagging, dragging sparks across the ceiling. One head lowered, sniffing; another growled.

"Seriously! I am an _artiste!_ Is this any way to treat a show's star performer? Come on! We all know who everyone is _really_ here to see!" Gonzo griped, and pounded again on the door. "Let us in! I'm getting cold feet!"

"Cabba feega?" Rosie asked, surprised enough to forget about the dog for an instant.

Gonzo blinked at him. "No, really...I feel like I'm standing in ice or something!"

Rosie peered into the ruts Gonzo's frantic pacing had worn into the floor. "Uh...ya stagga en wabbaliya."

"I'm standing in the..." Gonzo looked down at the chilly sludge trickling by his bare toes. "Water line. Got it." He smacked a fist against the door. "Come on, you philistines! Let's rock this mother!"

"Uh...Gazza..." Rosie gulped, poking his daredevil companion. The dog had advanced a step and extended two crinkled muzzles forward, baring large yellow teeth. It stepped on its bone; it snapped and then crunched into tiny bits under the weight of one broad paw.

"Rosie, look, either help me out here or –" Turning, Gonzo finally saw the dog. "Oh. Hello! Are you here to watch the show?"

"Raaaaaaagh!" the dog snarled, then barked. Loudly. Dust crumbled from the ceiling.

"Waaaaaagh!" Gonzo and Rosie cried, both immediately pounding on the door in earnest.

The door swung open, and a dark, hooded figure stuck out a voluminous black sleeve to gesture angrily. "What! What! We're about to do a show in here, and you morons are shouting loud enough to wake the...oh. Hey! You're the Great Gonzo! Okay, you can come in." The shadowed head poked out of the room far enough to get the dog's attention. "No pets!" The dog growled, then harrumphed, then lay down in the middle of the corridor again to prevent performers from fleeing.

"Uh...you, uh...you look a lot like someone I met once," Gonzo said, eyes wide, as he slipped into the room, McGurk close on his heels. "Are you by any chance –"

"Name's Bob," the hooded thing said. "Stage manager. You guys go straight backstage, okay? We're not ready to film yet; the audience won't be open for another ten minutes, and we'll start promptly at seven."

"Uh...sure," Gonzo said, staring after the figure as it glided off. "Huh...I could've sworn he was..."

"Funggah twebba klak," Rosie muttered, and Gonzo looked dead ahead to see Mungus Mumfrey slithering over the stage, checking the placement of numerous garden spades in a large net and then gesturing at a couple of burly goblins. The goblins heaved on ropes attached to pulleys, drawing the whole batch of sharp objects high above the stage. "Whaffa dugga?"

"Hmm. Must be for his puff piece tonight," Gonzo mused. "He thinks he'll be in the final. Hah! Why would anyone vote for a glob of multicelled parasite?"

Rosie shook his head, and the two made their way around the fungus toward the back holding pen. As they passed, Mungus raised a few spores and waved them mockingly at Gonzo, then at the EXIT sign in the audience. "Good luck to you too, pal," Gonzo retorted. "I think you're gonna need it!"

Rosie snickered. John Lamb turned at the voices; he'd thrown off his crutches, but as he hobbled toward them, they could see his injury would make further competition difficult. Still, he was a legend, and Gonzo wasn't sure if the crowds might choose him just to appease their desire to celebrate the past glory of ovine martial arts. "Uh...hi, Mr Lamb. Good luck tonight?" Gonzo said, holding out a hand uncertainly.

The black-wooled ram gave him a haughty look down the end of his muzzle. "Don't need luck when you're solid, baby. Try not to immolate yourself in the flames of my glory, a'right?" With a smirk, Lamb squared his already-square shoulders and strode off to the cooler of water bottles being set down now by two very tired Frackles.

Rosie blinked. Gonzo shook his head. "Egotism is rampant in this sport, Rosie," he confided. "Don't let 'em get to you. There's a trophy _I_ gotta take back to Camilla!"

Shortly, the room filled with sound: audience monsters crowding into the bleacher seats, corn-dog hawkers throwing yipping beer-battered Chihuahuas to patrons, Pew cursing out an amplifier which incessantly stepped right in his way. The trio of contestants paced and eyed one another, confidence warring with doubt in each brain. Snookie Blyer arrived only a few minutes before airtime, deposited on the stage platform by a chortling Carl, the Big Mean BBQ Griller; there was no time for him to wash the spices out of his hair properly, but he snagged two bottles of water from the cooler and upended them over himself in an attempt to look presentable as something other than an appetizer. He shook himself like a soaked dog, shooting a glare at the monsters in the audience who took note of his condition and laughed. When Pew began howling for places, Snookie dried his hands and took the microphone. The judges settled behind their table, the spotlight centered on the host, and the Mutations launched into the theme music. "Grab your popcorn, grab your soda, and take it all into another room so you can avoid seeing tonight's live results show right here – on _Break a Leg!"_ Snookie shouted, and the crowd roared.

"Gabba da egga," Rosie whispered to Gonzo, holding up a satchel with a dozen fresh eggs, but Gonzo waved him off.

"No, no – yeah, I know what I said. Forget it. I have a better idea. Here, let me have those..."

"Tonight, folks – and the rest of you in the audience – we will announce the results of your tallied votes and the judges' scores, and determine who will compete Saturday in the final contest, and who will be on the menu in the studio canteen tomorrow!" Snookie looked out into the roiling mass of fur, claws, and teeth, and wondered whatever had possessed him to go into show business. He doubted Guy Smiley ever had to worry about being eaten by his viewers. Forcing a smile for the camera circling him in closeup, he continued: "So many of you called in to vote that it took all our heads just to keep up!" The feed switched to the phone bank, idle tonight, but manned by a two-headed monster and a triple-header, who waved and grinned. "Once again, let's say hello to our judges...no matter how much we wish we were saying goodbye instead..."

Gonzo took a few of the eggs out of the bag, weighing them carefully by balancing each on his nose, and finally selecting seven of them which seemed more or less evenly matched. Rosie watched him fussing with them, bewildered. The host introduced John Lamb again; a clip ran of the sheepfighter's martial arts tour-de-force and embarrassing mishap, and then Lamb himself stepped into the lights and directed four of the stagefrackles to hold thin bamboo sticks upright. He leaped onto them with a grunt and a grimace, then danced to and fro on the tiny tips of the sticks, his hooves clacking, and finally jumped straight up, struck his hindhooves together to create a spark, and ignited all four poles before somersaulting to the stage floor. The audience cheered, but Gonzo could see the ram's left foot wavering a little, and he was limping as he walked down to the holding pen.

After a commercial break, Mungus Mumfrey repeated his own side-splitting trick, allowing a rain of spades from the ceiling to chop him up before he came back together in a massive, globby pile and bowed to the audience. A few of the crowd, eager to repeat their participation of the previous night, hurled beer cans and half-eaten bags of popcorn at him; one thrown javelin nearly missed Snookie. The fungus' prior performance was shown on the large screen overhead. Gonzo fidgeted, muttering under his breath, and Rosie kept a worried eye on him.

At last it was the daredevil's turn in the spotlight. While his clip played, he took a deep breath, cradled a pile of eggs in his arms, and grinned at McGurk. "Watch _this,_ Rosie! This is for my girl!" he exclaimed. He bounced up onto the stage amid cheers, and Rosie winced, crouched at the platform's edge. How dangerous would this be? It was only supposed to be a puff piece, to tease the audience! Rosie took stock: they'd brought no explosives...no sharp implements...no acid. And yet, after all, this _was_ the Great Gonzo... The pink-furred monster turned light lavender in dread, and stared up at his death-defying ward.

Gonzo beamed at the crowd, bowed, and yelled at the band, "Just try to follow along, guys!" Then he tossed an egg into the air...another, and another, until all seven eggs flew in a circle above his head, the Whatever deftly juggling them. The crowd hushed, curious...and Gonzo began singing.

 _"You alone, you are my one and only chicken...steady_  
 _And if you leave I will alone and lonely sicken, fretting_  
 _You and I_  
 _We're a team and that's a fact_  
 _You and I –_  
 _What a terrific idea for an act!"_

The crowd looked at one another, puzzled. What terrible, death-mocking stunt was this leading up to? Gonzo began dancing, a softshoe toward stage left as he continued to juggle the eggs, working a little variation into their height.

 _"Camilla!_  
 _You're sweeter than wine or vanilla,_  
 _Camilla!_  
 _I'll lie beneath this tree – it's a willah_  
 _Camilla!"_

Snookie stared at him. _What the hey? How is this daring? What's he up to?_ Gonzo shuffled to the other side of the stage, still singing; the monster band seemed at a loss, except for one purple leggy thing who'd picked up a ukulele and was strumming along.

 _"Camilla!_  
 _The night it grows stillah and stillah,_  
 _Camilla –_  
 _You're prettier by far than Godzilla_  
 _Camilla!"_

Gonzo suddenly flipped over, walking on his hands and juggling the eggs with his feet. "I love you chickie!" he yelled. "Bring it home, guys!" The lone musician strummed louder, and Gonzo belted out one last refrain.

 _"Camilla –_  
 _Without you I'd only be illah_  
 _Camilla!_  
 _Please be only my...little...pillah_  
 _Camilla, Camilla, Camilllaaaaaaa!"_

As the dumbfounded studiofull of monsters stared, Gonzo righted himself with a flip, and caught all the eggs in his mouth. When he grinned, seven round orbs spread his lips wide. "Fank ooo!" he shouted with his mouth full. "You' a wonnaful aubienf!" Bowing again, he left the stage. McGurk met him with three wide eyes. "Whaf?" Gonzo asked, thumping down onto a bench and fanning himself with his cape. He carefully removed the eggs from his mouth, and to Rosie's bewildered gesture at them, responded cheerfully, "Oh, that? Cool, huh? Steve Martin taught me that one. It works better when I play the banjo at the same time, but since it was kinda last-minute..."

"Ooo-kay!" Snookie said, trying to ignore the rumble in the audience. "I guess the most dangerous thing about _that_ was displeasing our studio crowd... Well, after this break, we'll find out who will be moving up, and who will be mowed under! Stay tuned unless you actually have a life worth living to _Break a Leg!"_

At the Muppet Theatre, a blushing chicken lolled on a sofa in the green room. At another chicken's insistent clucking, Gladys sighed and trudged to the canteen kitchen. "Hey, Chef, got any more of those smelling salts?"

"Hoo? Uhh...doon de speecy-ning sult!" the Chef replied, grabbing a few small jars from a shelf precariously overhanging the grill.

 _"Seasoning_ salt? Well, okay...if you think it'll work..." Gladys shrugged.

Camilla didn't even react too badly; a few pecks on the Chef's balding head chased him back to the kitchen, and she resumed her seat by the television, feeling hazy and soft. Nothing mattered except what she'd just seen...not the theatre, not the scatterbrained cook, not even the rumors about the monsters having deserted the troupe she'd heard earlier. Nothing existed for her but the grinning blue thing serenading her in that wonderfully scratchy voice. Now...if only he'd come home.

"Home free! I'm in! I'm in!" the wolf-thing growled. He peered around. The goblin clambered out of the trapdoor after him, and Slurg shoved the wooden cover completely out of its hole as he shouldered his way up. The wolf-thing sniffed the empty air of the darkened stage. "Uh...she _was_ here, but I can't tell which way she went..."

"Spread out. Look around," Slurg commanded. Elated, he swaggered as he explored the Sosilly stage. Pushing the goblin through the sewer pipes had been a chore, but after all, no especial nastiness had smeared his scales that way, and their undetected entry into the theatre promised success! Now if they could only discover where everyone...was... Swinging his long head around in sudden unease, Slurg realized the theatre was deserted.

"Uh...maybe they all went home for the night," the goblin ventured. He stopped by an open crate and stretched on tiptoe to peer inside. "Looks like they left some props." He climbed inside the crate while the wolf-thing sniffed around a stool and table center stage. Slurg paced, glaring from the empty seats to the empty catwalk above. A few pale lights lent dim illumination to the whole theatre, but clearly if there had even been a show tonight, it was over.

"Well, we're in, and we'll _stay_ in!" he announced. "She's gotta come back tomorrow, and when she does we'll be ready for her! Find a hiding place, all of you, and we'll –"

 _"All_ of us? There's only me and Burt," the goblin said, drawing a scowl from Slurg. The goblin held up a goofy-looking orange furry thing. "Check it out! Puppets!" Putting his slimy hand into the floppy primate, the goblin began jumping it around, clumsily moving the arms, and squeaking in a high voice: "Oh, Joey, the lemur, he really is swell –"

"Someone's coming!" the wolf-thing hissed. Before he could bolt offstage, two young men in black clothing threw open the curtain to the green room and strode out. The goblin ducked into the crate. Slurg and the wolf-thing froze, trying to be inconspicuous.

"Glad this stuff's done and we can get back to some actual _theatre_ soon," a young man with short chestnut hair and glasses commented. He upended the stool onto the table, and in doing so noticed the wolf-thing. "I mean, _look_ at this crap. Puppet slams? Really?" He grabbed the wolf-thing by the scruff of its neck, immobilizing it as he carried it to the open crate and tossed it in.

"Yeah, tell me about it," agreed the taller man with pale blonde hair. He spotted Slurg, and laughed. "Check this one out! What's it supposed to be, an alligator?"

"Got me. Come on, hurry up. The truck's leaving."

Slurg gurgled as the man grabbed him by the neck and the tail and heaved him into the crate; before he could protest, the lid slammed down, locks clicked in place, and the two techies hefted the crate between them. "Quit swinging it! Heavy enough without you rocking it all over the place," Alan complained.

"Nice try, dude. Come on, lift that barge, tote that bale," Scott returned, chuckling. Together they carried the crate to the waiting U-Haul in the alley and shoved it into the back before the driver slammed the door. "Hey, so where's this guy playing next? Crosstown?" Scott asked.

The driver consulted his schedule. "Nah – looks like Poughkeepsie."

"Hope they like dumb-looking puppets in the sticks," Alan snickered. As the truck pulled out, he clapped his fellow technician on the back. "Wanna come out and toast the end of a stupid month?"

"Sounds great, 'long as you don't mind me toasting it with ginger ale."

"Just don't sing that d—d Joey the Lemur song again."

"What song?"

"That thing you were singing. I heard you just a second ago, inside."

"Wasn't me, dude."

They stopped, and slowly looked at the empty alley. The exhaust from the truck could still be seen in the chill, wet air.


	44. Chapter 39

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE. _In which a signal receiver is procured; Rizzo is Rizzo; and Carl gets a sous chef._

Two monsters looked up warily, then slid aside for the troll to walk unhindered along a rough-hewn corridor. Strange glowing things crawled on the ceiling. Enormous bugs skittered underfoot. Wait – was that another corridor, off to the left?

The Newsman paused the playback, rewound it, and carefully advanced it frame-by-frame on his PowerBook, but the shadow off to Sweetums' left was no clearer. Frustrated, he let the film run again, making a dotted "x" for a possible exit on the graph paper map he'd been attempting for the last two hours, his right hand hovering over the touchpad while he drew with the left. So far, he'd been able to map the route Sweetums had taken for only about a hundred yards, judging from the length of the troll's wide stride. Newsie removed his glasses, stretched his arms up and rubbed his eyes. _It doesn't matter how tired you are; this thing needs to be mapped if you have any hope of getting in and out of there alive!_ Scowling, he reached for his pumpkin mug for another sip of cooling coffee. His phone ringing startled him, and pencil and coffee mug nearly went flying.

"Hello!" He tried to project more strength into his voice than he currently felt.

"Um...Aloysius? It's Mary."

It took his brain a moment to change gears. "Oh! Er...of course! How are you?" Then he realized what the reason for the call must be, and felt like an idiot for sounding so forcedly upbeat.

Confirming this, Mary said, "Um...I'm...I'm okay. I just wanted to tell you that the...the memorial service will be this coming Tuesday. The first. Uh...I hope Our Lady of Muppaphones isn't too far away for you?"

 _There's a church dedicated to Muppaphones?_ "Er...I'm sure that's fine. Is this a place Aunt Ethel regularly...um...worshiped at?"

"I guess so. It was specified in her will, according to Fred. The service starts at nine, and afterward there'll be a private meeting of the beneficiaries. You're included in that."

Newsie doubted his aunt had much to give away; the years she'd spent institutionalized must have decimated her estate. He'd go, however, as it was what Ethel would have wished. "Is...will Fred be there?"

"Yes." His distant relation paused, then added, "Please don't let that be a reason for you not to come. Even Fred won't be a jerk in front of the rest of the family. I know Ethel thought highly of you."

Newsie fought down the warmth in his eyes. Calmly as possible, he responded, "Thank you."

"And I'd love for you to meet the kids. All of them, including Fred's. You _are_ family, and it's about time we all acted like it."

"I...er...thank you," Newsie said, surprised. "How old are they now?" He dimly recalled hearing of babies born years back, just before Ethel was committed to Shadows on the Dial.

"My Cindy is twelve, and Joey is nine...Fred and Marcie's daughter Yvette is fourteen..." Mary proceeded to relate a few tidbits about each child. Newsie's reporter instincts kicked in, and he grabbed his notepad and took it all down, hoping to appear less of a strange fool at the memorial around people he'd never met. Touched, he asked, "Is there...can I bring anything for the children? How have they handled Ethel's loss?"

Mary chuckled softly. "Oh, they hardly knew her at all...to them it's going to be just some big formal family thing they have to suffer through. Just be yourself, be patient with them, and go slow. I'd like...I'd like it if maybe you could come by around the holidays?"

Surprised again, Newsie swallowed back a lump in his throat. "Er...I'd...that would be very nice! Um...is it all right if I bring my girlfriend?"

 _"You_ have a –" Mary choked off her response, composed herself, and said instead, "Well, absolutely! We'd love to meet her! You're bringing her to the memorial, then, right?"

"Uhm...if...if she can take that day off, I suppose so, yes..." He hadn't even considered that. Would Gina come with him? She'd told him she _hated_ funerals, ever since her own parents were lost at sea when she was six; the only one she'd attended after that was her Grandmama Angie's. Now he'd have to ask her...and she was already miffed with him about the boarded-over windows...

"Good. I'm...I'm sorry it seems like it takes a death in the family to bring us together. But I hope we can start fresh, okay?" Mary asked. "And I'm...I'm really glad you've found someone, Aloysius."

He could plainly hear the unspoken sentiment: _Who'd have thought he'd EVER find someone?_ However, as Mary was clearly trying to be welcoming, he simply nodded, found his voice again, and said, "Me too. Uh...directions to the church?"

After hanging up, Newsie stared at his notepad a long while, half his brain trying to memorize what was on it simply out of long habit, the other half feeling very alone. Ethel had always encouraged the extended clan of Joe's children by his first wife to feel welcome in her kitchen, her home, no matter that not a one of them had fuzzy skin. Newsie's mother had viewed it...differently. A long-buried snippet surfaced in his memory suddenly: his mother hanging up the phone with a disgusted sniff.

Newsie had asked, "What's wrong, Mother?"

The estimable Florabeth Crimp, née Blyer, had thrown a scowl that could freeze a fourth-of-July sparkler in the direction of New Jersey. "Your aunt has invited us to a _picnic!"_

Cautiously, Newsie asked, "Er...is she serving that lemony potato salad you hate?"

His mother whirled, fixing that awful glare on him; he flinched. "No, you ninny! She's invited _them!"_

"Giant ants?" Bewildered, Newsie cringed again when Florabeth took a step toward him.

"My son, the class fool... _No! Them!_ Those...those... _feltless_ people!" She glared in the general direction of her sister's home across the Hudson, and Newsie was fairly certain a few fireworks _did_ turn to icicles out that way.

Shaking off the image, he picked up his coffee mug, cradling it in both hands and turning to look out the narrow strip of window which Gina had uncovered last night (after a long struggle with a crowbar and a power drill). The windows faced east, not that it mattered; his aunt and uncle's old house had been razed a decade ago for some parking-lot expansion project, so even if he were peering west with binoculars all he'd see would be cars. And maybe an SUV or three. Annoyed with his wandering brain, Newsie took another sip of coffee, grimacing to find it cold. He strode to the kitchen, popped the mug into the microwave, and at the exact moment his finger touched the button, a loud pounding sounded on the apartment door.

When he'd caught his breath and regained his equilibrium, the panicked Muppet forced himself to approach the door. He flinched when the noise ricocheted through the living room again. Newsie took a hesitant step toward the door. Should he even chance a look into the hallway? What if that's what the monsters were waiting for? What if they were small enough to squeeze through the tiny shuttered window that weird lockmonster had cut in the door? He stopped, key in hand, frightened at that thought.

Then an indignant voice squeaked, "Come _on_ already, Goldie! You asked _me_ to come over, remember? Open up!"

Abashed, he quickly unlocked the door and swung it open. Rhonda tromped in, a long sweater-dress and wool scarf covering her barely-fuzzy body and a glower wrinkling her elegant snout. "Fer cryin' out loud! _What_ are you doing, survivalist prep? Got a bomb shelter full of Spam in here now?" she exclaimed, looking at the padlocked porthole and then the still-largely-boarded-over windows.

"Uh...the lockmonster did that. We're, um, trying to modify it..." Gina had actually thrown down her tools in utter disgust last night after fighting with the haphazardly nailed boards for over an hour. When she'd left for work this morning, grim warnings about extreme un-makeovers and his vacation savings account had been spoken.

Rhonda quirked a whisker at Newsie. "A lock _monster?_ You had an actual _monster_ in this apartment?"

Newsie couldn't meet those hard little eyes. "Er...um...they were all out of Smiths."

She kept staring at him. "Anybody tell you lately how completely _weird_ you are?"

"Did you get the detector?" he asked, ignoring her jibe.

Shaking her head, the rat yelled behind her, "Hey, Ratbert, bring the thing in!"

Grunting, a skinny rat entered, step by straining step, dragging a length of twine attached to a squeaking skateboard. A large brown paper bag sat atop it; Rhonda gestured at the coffee table where Newsie's laptop and notes were spread. "Just set it over there." She deliberately pretended to ignore the incredulous look the rat gave her, turning back to Newsie. "Yeah, I got it. Had to hunt all over here and Brooklyn, but yeah, I found you one that didn't cost ya your first-born litter."

Newsie relieved the rat trying to heft the bag from the skateboard, lifting it himself and staggering a step. "Uh...it's...kind of heavy!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Ratbert grumbled. He looked expectantly at Rhonda, holding out a calloused paw. "A- _hem."_

"He's got it," Rhonda said, jerking a thumb at Newsie. She trotted to the window and hopped onto the sill for a closer look at the ridiculous construction. "Wow. What're you expecting the bad guys to send, a wrecking ball?"

Shooting a glare at Rhonda, Newsie fetched his wallet and tipped the scruffy delivery rat. Ratbert eyed the bill, sniffed it, then crunched it into a tiny ball and popped it into a cheek. "Mmn. Old ink. Tastes much better than da new currency. Have a nice day, folks." Newsie stared after the retreating rat and his squeaky skateboard.

"You shoulda given him one'a those Sacajawea dollars. It's funnier when they try to eat coins," Rhonda commented, hopping down from the sill. Newsie shut and bolted the door again, and then dragged the heavy paper sack to the sofa. "So, it's an older model; found it in a used electronics store. Should work okay, though."

Newsie hefted the instrument with some difficulty, uncertainly checking out the dot-matrix readout screen, the collapsible antenna, the many dials and switches. "Rhonda – this thing is almost _furniture!_ How am I supposed to lug it around?"

"You could always get a skateboard."

"It's completely impractical! I just need something that will find the MMN signal!" Newsie protested.

"What's this, chopped liver? It _does_ that, genius! Look, for nineteen-ninety-five, whaddaya want? I am a bargain shopper, not a miracle worker!" Rhonda sniffed, unknotting her scarf. "Got any more coffee? And hey, if there's any of those little pumpkin tart things left, I'll take two."

Giving up, Newsie started the kettle for a fresh carafe. When he returned to the living room, Rhonda was studying his hand-drawn map. She accepted the miniature mug Newsie handed her. "Great, and keep 'em coming. It's chilly out there today. Hasn't warmed up a bit since last night; it's like the sun overslept or something." She tapped the graph paper. "You're planning on trying a commando stealth raid, I take it?"

"We still don't know what they're up to!" Newsie growled, maneuvering himself onto the sofa carefully while balancing his coffee mug. Even with a lot of Gina's furniture being somewhat low-slung, sometimes he wished he were a foot taller. Or two. "If we can get a better sense of direction down there, we'll have a better shot at –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, sunshine! What's this _we_ stuff, kemosabe? I am not going anywhere _near_ giant toothy bugs again in this or Deadly's lifetime!" Rhonda shook her head vehemently. "Newsie! Use your brain, I know you must have _something_ controlling your higher nervous functions, frog knows you're nervous enough... We can't just go barging in there! Have you even _watched_ this footage? There are monsters _everywhere_ in those tunnels!"

"Maybe there are places we can hide!" he argued. _"Yes_ I've watched the footage, over and over! Look – ten yards in, there's a corner; if we could hide right there until their patrol passes by, maybe –"

Rhonda stared at him in disbelief. "Are you even _listening_ to yourself? This isn't an action movie, and I promise you if you get caught, Steven Segal is _not_ gonna come save you!"

"He might," Newsie grumbled. "He spent a week tracking Piggy down for her autograph once."

"And that means he'll risk his highly-paid neck for a short yellow guy who doesn't look anything _like_ a glamorous pig no matter _how_ much makeup you wear? Puh-leeeze!" Stalling the indignant Newsman's protest, confusion, and further protest, Rhonda took his hand in her paws. "Look, Goldie, it's too risky! Have you got hold of the Mayor yet?"

"He won't return my calls," Newsie said. "Don't you think I've tried that angle? Rhonda, the authorities aren't taking it seriously! _No one_ is taking us seriously! I...I read some of the comments on the report today, on that stupid pop video site where you posted it, and half of them think it's a _joke!_ I could tell everyone I talk to that monsters are about to rise from the sewers and engulf the city and they would _all_ assume it's some sort of crank nonsense!" Mary's phone call came to mind; Newsie slumped, shaking his head. "My...my step-cousin...I should have warned her...should have said _something_ about the danger; what the heck, her brother already thinks I'm crazy..."

Rhonda sighed, and sipped her coffee slowly. Newsie gazed glumly at the laptop screen, frozen at a moment of film showing a nearly-pitch-dark corridor with craggy walls and stout goblins staring up at the troll in their midst, unwittingly captured for the camera. "Mm. I like the ginger in this blend," Rhonda said.

"How can you be thinking of coffee flavors at a time like this?" Newsie groaned.

"Because there ain't much I can do about the rest of it, News Crusader. Look...there's just no way you, or even you and I, could get in and out of there without being spotted...and frog knows what else. We haven't got the muscles or the firepower, Newsie!"

"No..." Newsie jumped when another banging sounded at the front door. "Ack!"

"Chill, Goldie. I doubt very much _those_ guys would bother to knock," Rhonda grumbled. She hopped from the coffee table and went to the door. "News meeting in progress! Who is it?"

"It's da land shark; who'd'ya _t'ink_ it is?" An annoyed voice snapped back.

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Natch. We have food; of course _he_ showed up." She tugged at the Muppet-level deadbolt. "Wanna open this or what? Then again, if you want to let him starve in the hallway, I have no objection..."

Newsie unlocked the door; before he could turn the knob, Rizzo shoved the door open and barged in. "'Bout time! Ya know, you should really tell da building supe dat da halls in dis place are cold enough to keep meat in!" His eyes brightened when he saw Rhonda. "Ahhh...just what I needed!"

"Are you _seriously_ trying to get fresh with _me,_ you one-track little twerp?" Rhonda said, then relaxed into a glare as Rizzo grabbed her coffee mug and slurped noisily. "Hmf. Figures..."

"Uh...isn't it better that he only wanted the coffee?" Newsie asked.

"A lady likes being given at least the _opportunity_ to blow someone off," Rhonda responded. Rizzo finished off the tiny cup and looked bewildered at them both.

"Huh? You guys talkin' about me?"

"Forget it," Newsie muttered. "What are you doing here?"

The rat planted his paws on his wide hips. "Oh, yeah, real nice reception for da bearer of good news! I am all agush wit' warm happy fuzzies here."

"Rizzo..." Rhonda growled.

The rat produced a long envelope from inside his letter jacket with a dramatic flourish. "Payday, guys! Scooter asked me to deliver a few a'dese around. Leastways, dat's what I'm tryin' ta do...dat last guy didn't answer his door, and I couldn't find any of dose big gangly purple guys anywhere..."

"Purple guys? The Mutations?" Newsie asked, perking.

"Yeah, dat's dem."

"Who didn't answer his door?" Rhonda asked. Rizzo dug out a fat stack of envelopes, riffling through them.

"Uhhh...Big Mama? Huh. I nevah knew dat was actually a girl..."

Newsie turned a grim look to Rhonda; she twitched worried whiskers. "Scooter asked you to deliver paychecks to the monsters?" Newsie asked.

"Yeah, so? I get paid for da errand in cheese ravioli no matter if dey answer my knock or not!" Elated, Rizzo grinned. "Ravioli wit' pecorino Romano, and ricotta, and aged Parmesan all smothered in a rich marinara...nothin' like good fillin' American food on a cold day!"

"Ravioli is Italian, you idiot," Rhonda snapped.

"Not made by da Trembling Rodent Café in da Bronx, it ain't."

"Have you tried to deliver to any other monsters yet?" Newsie demanded.

Rizzo sighed, unwillingly digging through the whole pile. "Nigel...penguin...Lew...penguin...Gladys...penguin...geez, I wish dese were listed by residence, not alphabetically; I t'ink alla da penguins live at da ice rink under da Garden, don't dey?"

"Let me see those!" Newsie grabbed the stack and flipped through each plain white envelope. "This one – Carl. Did you try him yet?"

Rizzo squinted at the address. "Uh...yeah. Already been to Queens. Nobody home."

"They're all down there," Newsie said, looking unhappily at Rhonda. "All of them! And who knows how many others..."

Rhonda shook her head. "As if one nasty slobbering thing under the city wasn't enough, they gotta do the whole strength in numbers thing. Well, we kinda guessed that already, Goldie; just look how many of 'em wandered into the frame on our footage from that one visit!"

"Strength in numbers..." Newsie looked at the names on the envelopes; most of them weren't monsters, just ordinary Muppets: Whatnots and pigs and dogs and chickens and things...

"Are you gonna offer me a refill, or can I go now?" Rizzo asked grumpily. "I wanna finish all dese in time for da dinner rush or dere won't be any fat stuffed pasta left for dis hard-workin' rat!"

Newsie handed back the pile of envelopes, and Rizzo somehow crammed them into his jacket again. "One for da road?" he asked hopefully. Rhonda slammed the door in his face.

"Oh, and look, he already opened your check for you," Rhonda muttered, handing the Newsman's envelope over. "How thoughtful of him to see how much you make."

"Same as everyone else," Newsie said absently, wandering back to the coffee table, not even glancing at the check. "Except for Piggy, anyway."

"Yeah, but I doubt she's content with double salary. Two times nothing is still –"

"Strength in numbers," Newsie said again. Rhonda frowned, and struggled to lift the carafe on the table.

"You skip a groove like Zoot, or what? Yes, I get it; _all_ the monsters are evil bad conspiratorial sewer Nazis. Point made. You wanna get me a clean cup? I am _not_ touching where rancid-butter-breath has sipped."

"Rhonda," Newsie said excitedly, taking the carafe out of her insufficient grip and using it to gesture, "They have numbers – but so do _we!"_

She frowned quizzically at him. "What is this, the Union Army getting into a war of attrition? You want it should come to that?"

"No, no, no!" Newsie began pacing, still waving the sloshing carafe from the French coffee press. "What if we _all_ went down there? A surprise raid! Not to attack, just to see what they're doing! All it would take is a distraction in one section to get their attention, and then you and I could sneak down to that lower level, where Sweetums went to talk to that office monster –"

"The guy with the ledger and the file cabinet?" Rhonda shook her head angrily. "Wait, wait, don't suck _me_ into your foambrained schemes! What makes you think we wouldn't all be captured and—and—gobbled up like Thanksgiving leftovers?"

"We could sic Animal on them! Fifteen minutes, maybe? Just enough time to get into that production office and find out what the master plan is –"

"What makes you think they even _have_ one?"

"There has to be! Somehow it's all connected: the television station, the snack cakes, the abductions, the monsters at the asylum –"

"What, you think you're gonna waltz in there and find a ledger marked _Evil Master Plan_ or something? Or are you gonna take a hostage and torture him?"

"We have to do _something!"_ Newsie cried. "Stop the monsters, uncover the plot, rescue my cousin – nobody else will, Rhonda! It's up to us! Maybe we're only journalists, and credential-stripped ones at that, but d—it rat, isn't it _still_ our duty to expose this heinous operation for the _horror_ it is and shine the harsh light of day into the city's underworld?" He stopped, breathless, staring earnestly at Rhonda. She stared back with wide eyes. After a second, Newsie realized coffee was dribbling down his arm from the carafe in his upraised hand.

"Someone here has been watching _way_ too much of his boxed collection of _The Wire,"_ Rhonda muttered. Embarrassed, Newsie lowered his arms. He felt horrible: powerless, frustrated, and more than a little humiliated. Just like the old days... But then the rat stepped forward and crossed her arms, glaring up at him. "You _do_ realize that Floyd's not gonna be thrilled about the idea of winding Animal up to a full-blown wild hair, right?"

"Floyd already thinks I'm a..." Newsie paused, her meaning penetrating his despair. "A...a wild hair?"

"Well, I figure, the crazier we make him, the better his chances of causing a complete furry meltdown in the tunnels. Better his chances of surviving and getting back _out_ , too."

"What a fantastic distraction that would be," Newsie said, slowly starting to smile.

"Where exactly were you planning on slipping in while the drum-fu is taking place, anyway?" Rhonda plumped herself onto the sofa, picked up the pencil and took over the mapping, hitting the playback on the laptop screen. "Can I have that fresh cup now? I plot insanely stupid recon missions better with caffeine."

Allowing himself a grin, the Newsman went to find a clean mug.

Snookie expected, from the scents of coriander and cumin wafting down the corridor, to be curried today. He opened the door to the cooking studio with a heavy heart and a sullen tread, head down. "Hi!" Carl shot at him cheerfully. Snookie didn't look up; he was more than accustomed to the monster's demeanor whenever eating was involved.

"Um...hi," said another voice, not nearly as growly as Carl's. Snookie's head jerked up in surprise. He hadn't misheard: there she was, with a silly skull-and-crossbones apron tied over her front and a hairnet containing her long purple locks. She grimaced wryly at him. "You look better with your mouth closed."

Regaining self-consciousness, Snookie shut his jaw and fumbled for words. "You...what are you... _Carl!"_ Angrily he whirled on the bemused monster. "The deal was _no_ eating her!"

"Who said I'm eating _her?_ I needed a _sous chef,"_ Carl protested. Constanza glared at Snookie, as if the silly apron and hairnet were _his_ fault. Carl grinned, his poufy white toque bobbing between his horns. "The main course today will be yellow curried Muppet with plum chutney! Now wash up; I heard someone from the board a' health might be joining us, and I want everything shipshape!"

"You're getting inspected by the board of health?" Snookie asked, baffled. He glanced at Constanza again, who had resumed her task of chopping scallions at a large cutting board. Under other circumstances, he would have found the oddly domestic scene to be charming...

"Who said anything about inspecting? Some mook from the department was dragged down here last night, and I asked for dibs," Carl chortled. "If he has orange felt, it would complement the curry nicely...go on, scrub up and get in the pot!"

Reluctantly, Snookie removed his shoes and sports coat and rolled up his sleeves. As he began washing his hands at the large sink, he hissed at Constanza, "How long have you been working for Carl?"

"Hey, don't look all traitor-to-the-cause at _me!_ I've been moved from cell to cell for days and then suddenly this horned freak drags me in here and tells me I have to help him cook!" She shuddered. "So far today I've made a bouillabaisse, two cream _roués,_ ground fresh spices for the curry, and chopped veggies...and that _thing_ has gulped down two whole tunafish, three rabbits, and a sheep."

"Appetizers," Carl chimed in, overhearing. "I'm gonna pitch my idea for a new cooking show to the boss: _Carl's Kitchen Frightmares!_ Catchy, huh?" He came over to examine the scallions. "Good...now the carrots! Quarter-inch coins, please!" He handed a bound script to Snookie. "Try to learn your lines by tomorrow so we can shoot the pitch reel, okay?"

Snookie stared at the script, then at the monster. "Lines? You want _me_ to learn _lines?"_

Carl shrugged. "Hey, you know these things are never _actually_ unrehearsed!" Humming happily, he returned to the cast-iron cauldron he was heating oil in, and began tossing in peppercorns, whole cloves, and sprinkles of a yellow curry powder. The smell permeated the room. Snookie decided he would never ever like Indian food again.

"Is he...is he treating you well, at least?" Snookie whispered, taking as long as possible to scrub up his arms with the antibacterial soap.

Constanza looked over at the cheerful chef, then shrugged. "Hasn't laid a claw on me, if that's what you mean, but as a vegan I am _deeply_ offended by what I've had to witness so far!"

Snookie frowned. "Then you're _really_ not going to like the rest of the day."

"You said a deal. What deal? You had something to do with me being here, I take it?" the young Whatnot growled. She glared at him. "Did you honestly think I'd _enjoy_ having to play Betty Crocker to a six-foot furry carrion-inhaler?"

"Never mind," Snookie said, noting Carl looking his way.

"I asked for _advice,_ not a role on a bizarre cooking show! I can take care of myself! I'm not some helpless little – hey – hey what are you doing?" Constanza cried as Carl grabbed Snookie and hauled him toward the cauldron.

"Finish the carrots," Carl said, ignoring her distress. Snookie felt the heat coming off the pot, and winced, trying to brace himself mentally for what was coming. "This has to be timed right, or it'll burn! Now hurry up!"

"You're going to..." Constanza said, horrified, realizing what was about to happen when Carl considerately ripped Snookie's shirt and pants off so they wouldn't be stained by the curry. He tossed the clothes aside; Snookie felt a blush on his cheeks, then felt ridiculous. _Really? You're about to be curried alive and you're worried about skinny pecs and baggy shorts? Reality check!_ He wouldn't look at Constanza, though he could hear her coming closer to yell at Carl. "Hey! You can't do that! That's _definitely_ against the Lazer Convention rules of monstrous combat! Put him down!"

Carl stared at her, then burst out laughing. "She's so _cute!"_ He turned that disturbingly wide grin to Snookie again. "Hope she's worth it! In ya go!"

Constanza cringed at the scream which immediately shot up out of the pot. Carl stirred quickly, adding a handful of sea salt. "Dum de dum de dummm...oooh, gotta love fresh ground coriander! Hey sweetheart, where's those carrots? And get on the baby Yukon Golds! Diced, not chopped, got it?"

The pink-spattered blue Whatnot continued to stand and stare, shocked, another few seconds, until those dinner-plate-sized eyeballs turned in her direction again. "You hard a'hearing? _Move_ it! Don't _make_ me go all Gordon Ramsey on you!"

Swallowing back a mouthful of sudden sourness, Constanza hastened to bring the chopped carrots and scallions, and set to work chopping baby potatoes into tiny cubes with a cut-press. When Carl patted her shoulder, she flinched. "That's better. When you're done that, uncork something white and fruity...I'm thinking maybe that Coastal Frightyards Sauv Blanc in the fridge, okay?" He smiled at her. "Now see? That wasn't so hard to do, was it? We'll make a decent _sous_ out of you yet!" He went back to stirring the pot. "Tell you what: if you can have the saffron rice done in time to go with it, I'll even let you have the first bite, just ta show you I appreciate a hard worker!" Contented, Carl went back to humming a Bollywood love song.

Somehow, Constanza managed not to throw up in the sink.


	45. Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY. _In which Kermit didn't know he was throwing a party; and the Newsman's hopes fall._

Scooter sighed, and shuffled through the pile of papers clipped in his notebook yet again. "I'm sorry, boss, but I just don't see how we can manage the pyrotechnics _and_ all the location set-ups! Even if Crazy Harry gets released by Homeland Security anytime this century, we still don't have the budget to film the cabin blowing up at the end..."

Kermit shook his head. "What...what if we used CGI? I mean, I hate doing that, but everyone says it's cheaper than real effects..."

Scooter grimaced. "No can do, boss. Still too pricey...and anyway, I hate that stuff, don't you? It _never_ looks as real as the real thing!"

Kermit gave him a wry half-smile. "Huh...I would've thought our resident technogeek would embrace digital technology!"

Scooter shrugged. "Eh, I guess I still _am_ old-school about some things." Kermit chuckled, then resumed pondering their finance problem. Having decided which of the outdoor locations best represented what they wanted the derelict cabin in the spooky woods to look like, they'd assigned the various locales to the necessary exterior shots in the script during a long afternoon of detailed discussion. Now the executive production team of frog and gofer were trying to hammer out what they'd have to cut in order to come in under the amount allotted by the studio. It proved a very difficult process, and Kermit was almost relieved to glance at the clock and see it would be time to head for the theatre in another couple of hours to prepare for tonight's show. Speaking of... "Y'know, maybe we should table this, and talk about tonight's lineup," Kermit suggested, telling himself the acts really _did_ need to be discussed, and that he shouldn't feel guilty about postponing the difficult budget talk.

"You just wanna put off the budget talk," Scooter said, grinning, and Kermit scrunched his face briefly. "Hey, ya never know: maybe when they see the enthusiastic response to the charity walk publicity Monday night, they'll raise our limit!"

"Maybe," Kermit said. "Are we all set up to go on that?"

"Got the shirts in this morning." Scooter rummaged in his knapsack, bringing out a black t-shirt with the words _HAM IN A CABIN: HALLOWEEN 2012_ silkscreened on the front in bright orange. The illustration on the back of the shirt, a line sketch of Fozzie, Kermit, and Gonzo's heads all with evil grins surrounding a wary-looking Piggy, and the catchphrase _Be very afraid,_ made Kermit smile despite his headache.

"Cute. Cute shirt. Now put it away before Piggy sees it and complains that the drawing makes her look too..."

"Gotcha," Scooter grinned. "Okay, Chief...so. What _are_ we going with tonight?" Kermit shook his head wearily as his able assistant smoothly switched gears from movie-work to stage-work mode, closing the thick production notebook and bringing out his battered clipboard instead. Suddenly Kermit realized he didn't really want to deal with _this,_ either.

He looked up hopefully as Piggy swirled through the room, several hangers full of opulent gowns draped over either arm and her personal wardrobe assistant trailing after, nearly buried beneath more dresses. "Honey? Any chance there are any of those oatmeal cookies left?" he asked his wife.

"Kermie, dear, what do you – what? Cookies? Oh, ummm...no, I think they may all have been...uh...eaten already." Ignoring her frog's grimace, she launched into the purpose of her visit to the dining room, where papers littered the table and Important Production Decisions were being hashed out. "Kermie, I have narrowed down my choice of outfits tonight to only four, and I wanted your opinion!"

Kermit sighed. "Piggy, honey, you look good in _everything..._ wear whatever you want."

"Ah ha ha! _Mon Capitan_ is too kind," Piggy simpered, holding up two gowns in each hand. "But seriously, which do you think suits me best: the light orange cream chiffon, the little black number with the beaded bodice, the gold silk, or the fluttery leaf thing?"

"Oh, I think they're _all_ swell!" Scooter piped up. Miss Piggy shot him an annoyed glance.

"Kermie? What do _vous_ think?"

Feeling too stressed to care, Kermit took a breath, considered how his wife tended to react to a declaration of indifference, and randomly pointed. "Uh...that one. The gold. That'd be great."

"Really?" Piggy looked askance at it. "I thought the slit up the thigh was a little too Angelina."

Exasperated, Kermit waved his hands. "Piggy, just – I don't care! Whatever you choose will be fine! I have to focus right now, okay?" The pig's snout suddenly shoved into his nose, and Kermit flinched. "Eep..."

"Kermie...it is _not_ as though I am asking for a bigger allowance for my costumes in the new film. I just want to know _which_ dress looks _best_ on me, frog!"

"Well, that's good," Scooter muttered, "'cause we don't _have_ the money for more costumes."

Piggy's head jerked up, ears aquiver. _"What?"_

Kermit grabbed the fluttery dress of overlapping gauze leaves in various autumn colors. "This one! This one, okay? It's beautiful, _you're_ beautiful, now can I please just get back to figuring out the acts for tonight already?" he yelled.

Piggy gave him a kiss. _"Merci, Mon Capitan._ Enjoy your meeting..." About to flounce off to choose the right eyeliner to go with the dress, she paused. "Just don't forget: I'm doing 'Autumn in New York' with Rowlf and Zoot all this weekend as my spotlight piece!"

 _How could I forget, she's been singing it all week,_ Kermit thought. Sighing, he nodded, and Piggy left, gesturing imperiously. "Come along, Jeanette! Those dresses aren't going to re-hang themselves, ya know!"

Scooter gave his boss a sympathetic pat on the back. "Don't worry, boss: we'll figure out the budget somehow. Maybe...maybe we can cut the scene with the ghost chipmunk?"

"No, we've already contracted with the chipmunk's rep," Kermit said. "Scooter, I don't want to talk about that any more today! Let's just...just focus on the show, okay?"

"Okay, Chief. Uh...would coffee help?"

"A budget of more than five hundred dollars is what would _help,"_ Kermit groaned.

"Cup a'joe, comin' right up," Scooter agreed, hustling to the kitchen of the Chelsea townhouse.

Resigned, Kermit called after him, "And some grub-bars, if Robin left me any!" Although he enjoyed having his nephew here for the school year, he'd quickly discovered that teenage frogs could consume more in a day than he'd thought amphibiously possible, and was forever restocking his own special snacks after Robin's 'fridge and pantry raids.

The doorbell rang. Kermit started to ask Scooter to get it, then realized even his skilled gofer couldn't be in two places at once, and the kitchen was in the back of the house. He rose and went to the foyer, the interruption only adding to his annoyance...until he swung the door open and a chorus yelled, "Trick or treat!"

Startled, Kermit stared at the myriad of smiling, costumed youngsters on his stoop. "Uh...hi! I...I thought Halloween wasn't until Monday?" Good grief, was he _that_ discombobulated?

"Hi, Kermit!" A familiar voice came from an orange Muppet in a pirate captain's outfit. The boy lifted his eyepatch, and merry dark eyes gleamed. "It's me, Ernie!"

"Ernie!" Now Kermit recognized almost all of the creatures standing outside his door. "Bert! Big Bird! Count?" The Transylvanian-born nobleman bowed, smiling, his usual cape and monocle exchanged for a ten-pint hat and a knotted bandana. "What are you guys..." Then he remembered his conversation with Grover. "Oh...no..."

"Helloooo Froggiebaby!" the blue monster cried, waving eagerly. He was dressed in a black shirt with a big felt moon glued to the front, a black cap with stars on long boingy springs, and a large black cape resembling giant wings. "I am the Dark Night! Trick or treat!"

"Oh boy," Kermit muttered. "Uh...guys...look, I...I'm really sorry but, uh, the invitation was for you all to come by the _theatre!_ I wasn't really expecting any trick-or-treaters yet, and I don't have any candy..."

"Ohhh," the collective sigh went up. Then a small red-furred monster under a white sheet, with his eyeballs sticking up on top, offered brightly, "That's okay, Mister the Frog! We can still have a good party without the candy, right everyone?"

"Yeah!"

"Sure!"

"Uh...if no candy...got any cookies?"

Kermit tried again. "Uh...look...guys...it's great to see you here, but I wasn't really ready for –"

"What a charming house you have," the Count offered, peering inside. "May we come in?" He looked behind Kermit, eyes lighting up and a toothy smile broadening his broad mouth. "Ahh! And such a _beautiful_ lady of the house!"

 _"Merci beaucoup,"_ Piggy replied, then grabbed Kermit's collar, dragging him off to the side. "Kermie? _Vous_ did not _tell_ _moi_ that _vous_ had invited guests!"

"Eep," Kermit gulped. "Well, uh, that's because I _didn't!_ I invited them to the theatre, not here! Grover got it all wr—"

"I'm not even dressed for company!" Piggy complained. Kermit looked her quickly up and down, baffled; the scarlet blouse with long ruffled princess sleeves, curve-hugging cream-hued pants, and three-inch heeled boots certainly didn't seem much like a robe and slippers to him.

"Oh, boy! Mister the Frog has a very pretty house!" Elmo exclaimed, trotting through the open door. The rest of the children followed, though the big yellow bird had to duck through the doorway. "Elmo is very happy to come to a party in such a nice house!"

"Wow, Bert, get a load of that chandelier! I bet that would be _great_ to swing from, huh? Huh Bert?"

"Ernie, don't even think about it... H-hello, Miss Piggy. You look lovely!"

"Golly, I can stand all the way up in here! What a great room! Gee, those stairs are big; do big people live here too, Kermit?"

Kermit winced, helpless to stop the stream of Muppets now flooding his foyer. He gave Piggy an apologetic look. "I—I'm sorry, honey; look, this is all a big misunderstanding! I'll round them all up and – and take them to the theatre, or something..."

Piggy looked at him a moment, her expression fathomless, then at the youngsters exclaiming at all the antiques and _objets d'art_ she'd painstakingly hired a decorator to place in the more public rooms of their home. Suddenly she straightened her shoulders, put on her sweetest smile, and addressed the room loudly enough to get everyone's attention. "Welcome, everyone! Welcome to _my_ home...and the frog's. I am so sorry, you have caught me a little off guard, ah ha ha...but if you will all come sit in the family room for a few minutes, I will get everything ready for you!"

"Vunderful!"

"Oh, gee, thanks, Miss Piggy! Say – is the ceiling this high in there too?"

"Hey Bert! Look! They have a closet without any junk in it!"

 _"ER-nie!_ It's not nice to look in other people's closets! Put that back!"

"Roosevelt Franklin is _immm_ pressed, lady! You have one righteous pad here!"

Scooter entered from the dining room, looking confused, as Piggy herded the children toward the back end of the long townhouse where the kitchen and family room lay. "Uh, boss?"

Kermit shook his head. "I guess we'll have to wait on that act schedule, Scooter. Look – just throw something together, and we can iron it out last-minute at the theatre later, okay?"

"You mean like we usually do?" the gofer quipped.

Piggy returned swiftly; her all-business glare and purposeful tread had Kermit unconsciously backing against the foyer wall before he knew it. His wife leaned over to glare at him eye-to-eye. _"All_ right, frog – here's what you're going to do. Call Martha and tell her we have a kid-party _emergency_ and to send her best guy over _pronto!_ I'll handle the caterers. And if you _ever_ pull a stunt like this again –"

"Piggy – I didn't tell them to come here! This is all Grover's fault!"

"Well, I wasn't planning on company today, much less throwing a party for two dozen kids on a moment's notice, but..." Her gaze softened briefly. _"They_ don't understand that; they're just kids...and it _is_ almost Halloween." Kermit blinked at her, thunderstruck. She turned growly again immediately: "And if there's _one_ thing I am expert at besides being _moi,_ it is how to throw the best darned party _anyone_ has ever seen! Now _move it, frog!"_

"Y-yes ma'am!" Kermit gulped, hurrying to his study.

"I didn't know you and Martha were on a first-name basis," Scooter murmured. "I would've thought, after that branded-poncho dispute a few years ago –"

"Scooter! Get in here!" Kermit snapped, grabbing his assistant's jacket collar and dragging him off to help find the right phone numbers.

Piggy sighed, smoothing back her hair. Robin shut the front door behind him, eyes wide as he heard the happy commotion coming from the back of the house. "Huh...do we have company, Aunt Piggy?"

"Only about a houseful," Piggy grumbled. "Listen, kiddo, I need you to step up here. _Your_ uncle screwed up again, and now I have to entertain a bunch of little ones expecting a Halloween party!"

"We're throwing a Halloween party? Cool!"

"Can you just go back there and start them playing Twenty Questions or something?" Piggy sighed. "Make the answers about pumpkins and ghosts or whatever. I need a minute to get changed."

"Oh, you bet, Aunt Piggy!" Eagerly, Robin slung his school book satchel onto the ornate bench by the door, and hopped off to the family room. "Hey! Hi, guys! Elmo, Abby, long time no see!" A chorus of happy voices greeted him. Shaking her head, Piggy hurried upstairs to pick an outfit which would say 'hostess' without implying 'June Cleaver,' and to call one of the sweets-on-short-notice caterers she knew in town. She was confident Martha would come through for her on the decorations front; after all, their little spat over poncho design was really just for the tabloids, for fun...but she wasn't going to tell anyone that.

She smiled, hearing a joyful burble of noise downstairs. She really didn't mind a houseful of children, either...but she wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to make Kermit scramble to please her.

Let 'em all wonder.

Gina stood on the loading dock of the Muppet Theatre with her nervous Newsman. "So I thought...uh...maybe...maybe if everyone went in a group..." he ventured, giving her a shyly hopeful look above his thick-framed glasses.

Gina frowned. "Newsie...I don't think that's a good idea. You said yourself the whole place is crawling with monsters! It's just too risky – for you _and_ your friends. What if one of them was hurt? What would've happened if you hadn't been able to get Rhonda to the hospital in time?" She crouched to gently caress his cheek, her gray eyes grave. "It's too dangerous! Keep trying to get the Mayor involved – or if he won't listen, go to our Congressional reps. Or the Chief of Police. Maybe your detective contact can get you an interview?"

Newsie scowled deeply. "Nobody's listening to me! I can't get _any_ of them to take it seriously! And – and the forecast for tomorrow is rain! What if that's the storm Aunt Ethel warned me about?"

Gina gave him a dubious look, though she continued stroking his long cheek. "Sweetie...did you see _any_ evidence that she'd actually captured a monster for this supposed information?"

"No, but..."

"Look...maybe she was right. But rain in the forecast is hardly a terrible storm, and anyway, how could monsters affect the weather? Are there lightning trolls or something? Hail ogres?"

"I don't think so," Newsie admitted grudgingly. "But..."

"My Concerned Public Outcrier," Gina murmured, drawing him close, "I adore you, and you have every reason to try and warn people...but you are _not_ the Army, the Marines, or the Muppet Force, and taking out a nest of bad guys is _not_ your job, okay?" She sighed, seeing his deeply unhappy expression. Fozzie, Link, and Strangepork climbed the stairs to the back door, waving as they passed; Gina gave them a smile in reply. Newsie was too depressed to even nod at them. "Please just let it go for now. The city is supposed to break down that wall to the underground stairway at the snack company in just a few days, right?"

"So they say," Newsie grunted. "We _are_ talking about local bureaucracy, remember."

"True enough. Look...what you _need_ is a _legitimate_ news outlet backing you up again. I'm going to talk to that law firm about moving their discrimination case forward; they really seem to be dragging their feet. Has that Bland guy even called you back? His partner claimed not to know a thing!"

"His secretary says he hasn't been in," Newsie replied. Worried, he asked, "What if...what if something happened to him? His name was on the motion we sent to KRAK...Nofrisko owns the station...what if they got to him? What if he's –"

"Newsie! This is _not_ 'Three Days of the Monster,' okay? Look...soon as we can get you reinstated, you can present your report from a respectable news source, and people _will_ take it seriously then!"

"Maybe," Newsie mumbled, thinking of Blanke's parting jab at him when he'd been tossed out of KRAK.

Gina coaxed him into a kiss. "Sweetie...we'll try to get someone to pay attention who can actually go in there with enough clout to chase them all out, okay? But I do not want _you_ chancing it again! Please," she said, with another soft kiss, and Newsie's shoulders slumped in resignation.

"I feel so...powerless," he muttered. With a sigh, he embraced her. "Why won't anyone believe me?"

Thinking of her conversation with Scott not so long ago, Gina suggested, "Well...um...until I started coming here to watch your show, I didn't think monsters were real. I guess most people still think that way."

"What?" Surprised, his eyes widened. "How could _anyone_ deny the existence of things that creep and crawl and eat people? Didn't we all have things under the bed as children?"

"Um," Gina said, unsure how to answer.

Newsie gestured at Sweetums, who had lumbered out to the loading dock to muscle the dumpster out of the way for a delivery truck pulling in. "How could you take one look at – at things like _him –_ and not give any credence to my report?"

Gina turned to watch the troll helping to unload jugs of water for the cooler; where a couple of Whatnots strained to lift even one of the ten-gallon jugs, Sweetums hoisted an entire pallet of them over his shoulder and strolled back into the theatre, singing wordlessly: "Dum de dum da dum-be-dum..."

Brushing her bangs out of her face, Gina tried to explain, "Well...Newsie...I'm not sure how to say this, but...um...most people have never seen a monster up close like this."

He stared at her. "Really?"

She had to keep a smile from her lips. "Really. Most of us...uh, nonfelted people...don't get the opportunity to be around furry things that actually talk. You grew up more...um... _privileged_ than you realize."

 _"Privileged!"_

"So to speak."

"Gina," he huffed, "being around monsters is hardly an _enviable_ state of affairs!"

He appeared so indignant that she couldn't contain a giggle. Newsie looked hurt; immediately Gina sobered. "Sorry! Sweetie...please...just trust me on this. Let's focus on getting you a legitimate platform to speak from again, and the rest should follow, okay?" He frowned; she took his jaw in both hands so he had to look into her eyes. _"No_ underground expeditions. Please."

Reluctantly, Newsie shrugged, saying nothing. Gina stood, patting his shoulder. "Come on. It's almost time for you to check in. Let's get you backstage so Scooter knows you're here."

He went with her inside, barely acknowledging the greetings directed his way. The above-average noise level should have warned him...but he tromped down the stairs lost in thought, and was unprepared for the sudden burst of orange-and-black confetti which exploded just above him. With a choked cry, he instinctively hit the deck – and almost tumbled down the stairs, Gina's quick grab on his arm the only thing preventing a painful fall.

"Ernie! You're not supposed to aim those at people! You could poke an eye out!"

A young orange Muppet in a pirate outfit ran up to Newsie, patting his shoulders, his arms, his face. "Gosh, I'm sorry, mister! Are you okay?"

"Fine," Newsie muttered, taken aback. He shrugged free of the concerned pat-down, and looked in astonishment at the chaos reigning in the green room. Costumed youngsters romped among the regular Muppet cast, who seemed delighted at the company. "What...what's going on?" He'd thought bring-your-fuzzie-to-work-day was sometime in the _spring,_ and at any rate, this was a larger number of kids than he could recall seeing here at one time before...

"Hey, looks like the party pooper just met the party popper!" chortled Floyd. He grinned at Newsie's scowl. "Come on, man, lighten up. Grab a party cracker. These things are too cool!"

"Pop-per! Pop-per!" Animal yelled, two English-style party crackers held above his head in both hands and another loosely rolling around in his mouth. "Aaaaaarrr!" He yanked the ends of the crackers and bit down at the same time; more confetti and some small hard candies scattered with a loud pop. A skinny red monster dressed as a ghost laughed, and gathered up the candy into his plastic pumpkin. Newsie stared around the room: everywhere he looked, children were playing with the adults, who seemed all too happy to abandon their last-minute rehearsals to join in. _How is the show going to go off tonight with all this?_ Newsie wondered.

By the canteen, Gladys was fighting a losing battle trying to keep a cookie jar away from a round blue monster costumed as a baker; the Swedish Chef, thinking the creature actually _was_ a fellow cook, was trying to discuss turducken deep-frying methods. "Soo yoo stuffen der duckie into der gobble-obble wit poorsley, ur coomin?"

" _Ahhhhmm_ nom nom nom nom! – Sorry, me didn't catch that last part..."

Link had ensconced himself at a table nearby, expounding on his act for the weekend in an effort to impress the fairy children gathered there. "Well, the number does have _other_ pigs in it; as the _star,_ you see, children, it is only fitting and _generous_ of me to share the stage with some of them sometimes! Remember that, when you grow up, if you should happen to ever become _half_ as famous as me: always be nice to those beneath you..."

"Beneath you? Can you actually fly with no wings?" wondered a stout little fairy boy dressed as an alligator, with floppy felt teeth surrounding his own large mouth.

Discomfited, Link said, "Well...uh...of course I can! I got my spaceship pilot's license _years_ ago, and it only took me thirty-eight tries!"

"Don't listen to him," Dr Strangepork advised the youngsters. "You kids understand the difference between _real_ and _make-believe,_ don't you?"

"Oh, sure! Make-believe is when you _pretend_ something that can't really happen!"

"Goot, goot," Strangepork sighed. "Now vill you please _explain_ to this bratvurst-brain dat conzept?"

Gina hugged Newsie. "Looks like it'll be a busy night. You have fun, sweetie; I'll go grab a soda and find a seat. See you after the show." She bent to leave a kiss on his nose. "I wish you a night free from falling cows. Love you."

"Love you," Newsie muttered back, and tried to make his way to his dressing-closet without being accosted by any more partiers. How was he going to have a serious discussion about distracting the monster guards in _this_ environment? He'd brought the potential plan-of-infiltration he and Rhonda had drawn up today along, but – He winced. Gina didn't want him going back down there. Anxious, he stopped in the middle of the chaos, his thoughts warring.

 _She's worried for you, and rightly so! How can you even think of going behind her back?_

 _But this is important! Deathly important! Every day that passes, those creeps are building their forces, plotting their plots, working to undermine the whole city...they have to be stopped!_

 _Maybe the lawyers will have this settled in a day or two... Maybe the SWAT team can get into the tunnels on Tuesday, and bust all those monsters back to the beds they came out from under! Wait...maybe that's not such a good idea either..._

 _You can't wait until Tuesday,_ he argued with himself. _There's something big coming, something horrible, and no one will listen, and the only way to uncover the whole plot is to get down there and see for yourself! How can you possibly pass up a story of this import?_

 _But Gina..._

 _You didn't promise her you wouldn't go,_ he thought. He began pacing, unconsciously rubbing the woven string-and-hair bracelet always on his left wrist, his protection charm from his beloved. _No – that would still be unfair, to venture down there after she's told you how worried she is! –But someone has to, and no one else is stepping up!_

Dismayed, he looked around again. Happy, screeching children ran around the room, the Chef talked loudly with the monster eating everything off the grill, and Scooter tried to yell above the din for the band to take their places in the orchestra pit since the house would be opening in just a minute. Newsie frowned at the monsters, even though they all looked too young to be truly threatening, and all were dressed innocently as pirates or cowboys or ninja amphibians or something. (He wasn't sure what the dark-caped blue guy with the moon on his chest was supposed to – wait, wasn't that the lockmonster?) _Oh, good grief..._

The band filed past, laughing; Dr Teeth seemed content to allow the streamers trailing off his hat to remain there, giving him an even more wildly festive look than usual. On impulse, Newsie put a hand out to stop the bassist. "Floyd! I – uh – I need to talk to you about...about Animal."

"About Animal?" Floyd Pepper blinked in surprise. "What did you need him for, to catch a falling stock price?" He rasped his typical laugh.

"No...to cause a distraction for some monsters," Newsie replied. Floyd stared at him, unsure, and Newsie hurriedly continued, "There are monsters planning something awful in a secret base under the city! I have to find out what they're doing, but it's too heavily guarded for me to get in there without help...but if Animal could keep them busy, just for a few minutes –"

"Far out," Janice murmured. "Like, totally double-oh-Muppet! Since when did you start a spy gig, Newsie?"

"Someone has to find out what they're up to," Newsie said, blushing; he shouldn't even be talking about this...Gina would be very unhappy with him...

Floyd laughed again. "So you're gonna sneak into the sewers and psych 'em out with your dazzling personality?"

Annoyed, Newsie corrected, "No! I don't want them to even know I'm there! Please, Floyd – can you just bring Animal to the old Statler Hotel tomor—"

"Statler!" Floyd cackled. "Man, last time Animal went anywhere _near_ those old geezers, they dang near swallowed their dentures!"

"Hey, guys, upstairs! You need to be in the pit _now!"_ Scooter ordered. Chuckling, the musicians headed up, ignoring Newsie's anxious stammering.

"No – wait – I – I can't –"

"Newsman, nice to see you back, but you know you didn't have to be here," Scooter said, clasping the taller Muppet's shoulder a moment. "We're all real sorry for your loss. Just try to take it easy, okay? We're all here for you if you need us."

"I...thank you," Newsie said, swallowing back his fear enough to try again. "Actually, Scooter, there is something I –"

"Chickens! Chickens, you're up first tonight! Sorry, Newsie, I gotta go check on the stagepigs and make sure they have the _right_ set behind the curtain – last time I said falling leaves, they thought I said falling _sheaves,_ and Sam's Aesop story had corn piled all over it." With an apologetic grimace, the gofer ran upstairs, leaving a very nervous Newsman fumbling for words among the rumpus.

 _How can I do this? This isn't right – you shouldn't even bring this stuff up! Gina's right; what if anyone else gets hurt?_

 _But if I don't do this –EVERYONE might be hurt! Eaten! Frog knows what else!_

 _No! It's too dangerous to go back down there!_

Seeing Kermit coming through, smiling at everyone but clearly in a hurry to grab a cup of water from the cooler and get back upstairs, Newsie pushed through the crowd to fall in step with his boss. "Kermit! I...I need to talk to you about –"

"Newsman! Hey, you know you didn't have to come back to work yet. Are you all right?"

"Er...I'm all right. Um, I know you're busy, but I really –"

"Look, if you don't feel up to it yet, I completely understand," Kermit said, putting his hand briefly on Newsie's arm. "Piggy and I would like to send some flowers to the service, if that's all right, on behalf of the theatre for you and your family...just let Scooter know when and where, okay?"

"Thank you," Newsie said, touched, falling back a step, then hurriedly caught up as Kermit reached the stairs. "Kermit, about the monsters in the tunnels –"

"I saw your report. Listen, I really...I really hope there's some other explanation, Newsman. But you keep investigating and let me know what you find, okay? I trust you," Kermit said, giving Newsie a serious look, and then a smile. "Sorry about all the chaos tonight. We'll let you know when there's a News Flash; meanwhile, why not just try to relax, okay?"

"But..." Left behind as the frog took the stairs in three long hops, Newsie stared after him in dismay. "But...to keep investigating...I need your help..."

Nobody heard him. Everyone was too busy playing.

Grimly, he looked around once more. A large, very furry blueish monster with thick black eyebrows was laughing as he taunted a tiny lamb with a caramel apple on a stick, encouraging the young sheep in a genie costume to jump up for the treat. Innocent enough at a glance...but Newsie stared at that wide, seemingly black and endless mouth when the monster child laughed, and shuddered. If the monsters did overrun the city, what then? What of impressionable young critters then? Would they continue to sport with other Muppets freely and unthreateningly...or would something much darker be taught them?

Anxious, he felt around in his coat pocket until he found the small bottle Dr Honeydew and Beaker had given him. He hastened to his tiny dressing-room, ashamed to be seen popping pills, but once the door was shut behind him he swallowed three of them. Closing his eyes, leaning against the plain wooden wall, Newsie shivered. Going back underground was extraordinarily dangerous. Gina was right. Rhonda was right.

But letting the monsters go unchecked...that was even _more_ dangerous, for everyone.

Unfortunately, everyone was too busy to listen to him. He crossed his arms tightly against his chest, frightened, waiting desperately for the pills to take effect. He heard the hairy blue monster boy chortling just outside his closet, and shuddered all over uncontrollably. Without the sight of playing children before him, the sound, reaching him isolated here in the dim little room, seemed ominous...like a deep, chill voice on the phone...laughing at him, laughing at his lack of influence, his lack of importance.

Newsie felt very small, very alone, and very threatened.

 _Nobody is going to help me, and Gina will be hurt...and I have to do this anyway._

He held in the sound of fear his tongue wanted to make, and squeezed his eyes shut, and waited, wishing for bravery.


	46. Chapter 41-1

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE (part one). _In which the Underlord makes a significant change to his plan; and snow brings worries._

The doglizard, despite the bone-numbing chill of the deepest part of the studio caverns, was beginning to sweat. It had taken far too long for him to find a couple of the mole-people with claws big enough to dig around the immovable chunk of melted metal fused into the walls and floor of the passage to the control hub...and then longer still to figure out whether they understood him or not. Finally he'd managed to squeeze through the new tunnel, coughing and sneezing as he was pattered with loosened dirt, only to encounter a brooding underlord who was not at all pleased by the various delays. His crest smarting and tail so bent he was positive it was broken, Eustace cowered in the corner of the control room nearest the door while his lord and master raged.

"I cannot _abide_ this degree of absolute _incompetence!_ How _dare_ you even approach my presence again after all this! You've compromised the security of this center with your silly mole-tunneling, you can't find the strike team, and you can't even _count_ right!" the underlord roared; Eustace cringed as another server rack, squealing its battery-disconnect alarm, barely missed his nose and crashed into the door, putting yet another dent in the reinforced steel plates. "How dare you even consider yourself part of the Glorious Monster Race! You imbecile, you reject, you walking accidental hatchling!"

Eustace resented the implication that his mother had hatched him, instead of burying him under a smoldering mound of burning garbage as was customary for all doglizard eggs, but he kept silent. The boss yelled and threw a few more things. Eustace angrily reflected that he could too count: thus far, by his estimate, the underlord had wreaked approximately sixty thousand dollars' worth of damage in the past five minutes. _And who would be expected to clean it all up? Me again._ He flinched when a meaty, clawed hand grabbed a power cable at the foot of the throne, relaxed as he realized the boss wasn't reaching for _him,_ and then barked in surprise when the underlord looped the cable like a lasso, caught Eustace's head in it, and yanked him close enough to choke personally. _"No more excuses!"_ the boss shouted, and the glass in some of the older monitors shuddered.

"Ergh...glug...your...agh...your awfulnessss..."

"What? _What_ are you saying, you useless cur?"

Struggling to loosen the cable around his scrawny neck, Eustace choked out, "There...there issss ssssome good newsss, m-my liege..."

"Really?" Disgusted, the boss let go of the cable, and Eustace dropped, gasping, to the hard floor. Red eyes narrowed. _"Do_ tell."

Understanding quite well that his next few words ought to be very carefully parsed, Eustace stammered between heaving breaths: "The...the tally...for the prissssonersss hasss reached thirty-one, your frighteningnesss..."

But the underlord only snorted. "Useless. You are useless. Perhaps you'd make a decent footstool. Or a lampshade, if I stretched your skin tight enough."

"My lord!" Desperately, Eustace fetched the clipboard he'd brought, and offered it in trembling claws. "S-ssssseee for yourssself! I verified the count persssonally!"

"And had you _answered_ my summons _five hours ago,_ you would have learned that I no longer wish a mixed group of sacrifices!" the underlord roared, the wind flattening Eustace's whiskers against his jaw.

"No longer...?" the doglizard gulped, shaking. "B-but my liege! You sssaid –"

"Muppets! I want only Muppets!" The dark lord fell back in his massive chair, strong hands squeezing the armrests so hard they began to creak. "The staff can eat the rest of the prisoners after the Grand Ascension if they like, but for the thirty-one sacrifices, let me have only those of felt and foam! Have you seen how those fools aboveground _dote_ on them, how they chatter endlessly, mindlessly about them? Talk shows! Late-night hosts! Movie critics! Twittering birdbrains! All they blather about is Muppets!" The underlord quieted, scowling, and Eustace was deeply glad he'd never actually seen the master's face in good lighting; lesser monsters had fainted dead away at the image, 'twas said, and the effect was twenty times as bad when that horrible face frowned. "I wish my first act as _overlord_ of this city to be to see them all _extinguished!"_ To illustrate, a jet of flame suddenly shot out of some concealed lighter in the master's chair, setting Eustace's tailtip afire. He yelped, but before he could react further, the underlord jerked him into the air by his tail, and with bulbous dark fingers squished the fire out.

"That will be wondrousss marvelousss, my liege," Eustace offered, struggling not to pass out as all the blood rushed to his hard-boned head.

"It will be _glorious_ , Eustace. It will show the sniveling little ants crawling on the surface just how powerful I am, how utterly merciless...how contemptuous of their precious _optimists_. Their world is all bread and circuses, Eustace." The low voice paused; Eustace froze midway up in his attempt to grab his tail and hold himself in a circle, which would at least have righted his poor head. "Do you understand what that means?"

"Er...umm..."

"Idiot," the boss rumbled, but before he opened his hand to drop his underling to the floor again, the doglizard spoke up.

"It isss a referensssse to the lasssst daysss of the great Empire, when the Romansss paid more heed to their gladiatorsss and their fasssshionsss than to the corruption and decay inherent in their political processs...um...yesss, my Caligulanesss?" The underlord yanked Eustace closer, and the doglizard shut his eyes, clenching his whole body against the beating sure to follow for his impertinence. "Eep!"

After a long, tense moment, the underlord murmured, "Perhaps there is a sliver of potential left in you, worm. Perhaps there is after all." Abruptly, he released his flunky, who crashed to the floor in a tangle of tail-coils and bent whiskers, shakily relieved. "Do you comprehend now why it is better for me to focus my wrath upon those who are _most_ beloved in the eye of that simpering, television-sucking populace? I must have thirty-one _Muppets,_ all killed right at the moment of my transformation, to ensure the greatest possible negative effect on the drooling cowards above! We will sacrifice them all, right there before the cameras, right there for all the world to see – and to watch in horror as their new lord and master begins the true Age of Monsters upon this world!"

"Hail, the underlord!" Eustace whimpered, still trying not to faint. He tucked his snout under his tail and tried a few deep breaths, his cold heart pounding erratically.

"Hail, indeed," the underlord growled. "We shall fall upon them like a storm of hail – like a plague of locusts, devouring all in our path! We shall rip them arm from leg and taste the sweet blood in their pathetic foam!"

"Ripping, devouring," Eustace moaned, slowly rocking back and forth. "Yesss, my liege..."

The underlord sighed, calming slowly. He regarded his flunky with disgusted amusement. "How many Muppets will we have within our grip on Halloween night?"

The doglizard fumbled for the clipboard, and peered one way and then another at it, trying to get at least one of his eyes to focus. "Er...ahh...I sssee twenty of them are on the final lissst for the charity event..."

The boss steepled his fingers, musing. "And you said those two lab-coated fools will be there as well, running the silly horror-house gags? Twenty-two...we already have Blyer, and I am told another felted creature has been assisting Carl in his culinary attempts...twenty-four..."

"Sssshall we sssacrifice the vet, my dark sssslobberinesss?"

The underlord considered it. "No, not yet...we may require him if his serum does not perform as it should...which reminds me." Touching his Gruetooth headset, then one of the controls on the board of myriad buttons and sliders before him, the boss snarled, "Van Neuter. Your time is past. Stand before me and be judged."

A hurried knock at the control room door made Eustace jump, and even the boss's head jerked in that direction. A muffled voice chirped from the other side, "Right here! I've been waiting – you sounded a little busy! Didn't want to be rude, heh heh!"

Irritated, the underlord waved a hand at the door, and Eustace scurried to open it. The tall-headed, oddly bandaged veterinarian popped inside, grinning like a fool and waving a large syringe much too cavalierly for Eustace's comfort. "Here it is! Here it is! Oh, your dark panties in the bottom of the sock drawer won't have to be in a twist any longer, sir! The effects are _wonderful!_ The last beneficiary of the serum burst out in rows and rows of wriggling little legs like a caterpillar on Xanax, all happy-crawly! And the _fur!_ Oh, you won't be disappointed, your creepiness!"

"I am relieved to hear it," the underlord growled, taking the syringe from Van Neuter and studying the gleam off its tube in the myriad tiny red lights of the control center. "You had me convinced I would have to eat you organ by organ to teach you not to disappoint me, Van Neuter."

"Er...uh, no, no! You can _always_ count on me for all your bizarre transmogrification needs, sir!" The vet beamed, then noticed Eustace. "Oh, hello! Say, your whiskers look a little out of whack...want me to fix those for you?"

"No, no!" Eustace exclaimed, backing away.

"Stay a moment, Eustace," the underlord rumbled, and the doglizard froze, wincing. Those red glowing eyes turned back to Van Neuter, who seemed a little discomfited by the stare despite his habitual obliviousness. "Doctor, do you think you could make this wretch break out in festering boils?"

"Oh, certainly, your growliness! And...um...you might want to grab a cough drop or something, the chill down here is awful and your throat really sounds—"

"There have been no side effects to the serum?"

"Er...n-no! None at all! Everything's perfectly splendiferous! You'll _love_ how crawly it makes you feel, I promise!" Van Neuter assured his boss, his head bobbing nervously on his skinny neck.

"Very well. You may go."

Van Neuter looked disappointed. "Oh. You're...you're not going to...I, um, I really wanted to watch..."

The boss rumbled, then chuckled, then broke into a chortle so hideous that Eustace clutched his own tail in abject fear. "Well then! As you wish, Doctor...you may join me to witness the Grand Ascension on Halloween night. We shall hold it in the ballroom of the hotel above the studios. It will be precisely at 10:31...do _not_ be late." The underlord laughed again. "I shall make _certain_ a seat front and center is reserved for you!"

"Why thank you very much, your generousness," Van Neuter said. He elbowed Eustace smugly on his way out. "See? _Some_ people appreciate my work!" The vet tromped down the tunnel, whistling _La belle dame sans merci._

Eustace stared after him, incredulous. "Eustace..." The flunky cringed, immediately drawing his tail and head in. But his master only growled, "If this formula works as it should, I will make certain the masses know that idiot helped bring it about...and then turn him loose on the surface to fend for himself among them. However...should he have failed me...he will be the first one I consume."

"Y-yessss, my liege," Eustace muttered. He ventured a hopeful fact: "It...it appearsss from our sssstudio rosssster and the MADL event that we are quite clossse to having enough Muppetsss to sssacrifissse, your sssscarinesss..."

"How many?"

"Twenty-nine...if you are including that daredevil sssshow imbesssile."

"Ahhh yes. I had almost forgotten him. Yessss..." The underlord's hiss turned into a chuckle. "How delightful. Make sure he is brought to the room at the correct time."

"But...but what if he doesss not ssssurvive the lassst contessst, my lord?"

The underlord considered it. "Then use the fungus. But Eustace...I am holding _you_ personally responsible for Gonzo the Great winning the contest. Should he die before the Grand Ascension...I will enjoy watching your scales bubble and fill with painful pus. Do you understand me?"

"Yessss my lord! Absssolutely my lord!"

Before Eustace could back out of the room, a low, ominous chime sounded. The boss turned his chair to face one of the screens on the wall above, and typed quickly on a keypad. All of the screens switched to a view of the local weather radar; heavy clouds covered the map. "Ahhhh! At last! Ah, I knew my pet had predicted correctly! Observe, wretch!" Confused, Eustace stared up at one screen, then another.

"Er...rain, your globbery wetnessss?"

"Not rain, you imbecile... _snow! SNOW! Ahhh_ hahahahahaha!" The doglizard watched in absolute bafflement as the underlord's heavy hands swept across master controls. Chirruping smugly, the fat, venomous wooly caterpillar crawled into the underlord's lap, purring as he stroked it roughly. "Yes, yes, my pet! Good girl! She _knew,_ Eustace! She knew right when the first snow of the year would arrive! Ah ha ha ha ha! It begins at last!" Punching an intercom button, the dark lord roared, "Open the storm door! _Release the humbling signal!"_

He continued laughing, caught up in horrible mirth which shook the whole room. Squealing in terror, Eustace gave up all pretense of submission, and fled for his life along the rough-dirt tunnel.

"Hey, Gina," Alan called from the green room.

Intent on adjusting the shutters on a large Fresnel hanging from the catwalk, Gina only grunted. She took a better grip on the rusty equipment and tried again, finally succeeding in bending one shutter inwards an eighth of an inch. "Grrrraaaaahh! D—it!" Angrily, she plopped from a crouch to a sitting position on the grid, brushing sweat from her forehead.

"Gina?"

Annoyed, she yelled down, "What?"

"You need to come see this!"

"What, did Mike show up to help after all?" Gina had spent all this Saturday morning finishing the lighting hang and checking the instruments which would be used tonight for the MADL award ceremony, rough-focusing them at the platform in the center of the black-box theatre space and down at the various floor areas where the tables would be set up. She'd insisted on running the light booth tonight, since that would at least keep her isolated from the lawyers and other riffraff. Of a scheduled crew of three other people, only Alan had shown up, the others having claimed the weather looked bad or they suddenly had family problems. Gina was _not_ a happy camper.

"Just...come look!"

"Alan, I _really_ don't have time for this," Gina yelled back. "I have a dozen more lights to rough-focus and shutter down before those guys get here...and it's already..." She checked her watch. "Twelve-thirty! D-, have I been here _that_ long?" She cast a dismayed look around at the various other lighting instruments she still had to adjust.

The young man with chestnut hair spiked every which way and thin round glasses popped into the theatre space from the doorway to the green room. "No, seriously! We might not even _have_ to do the stupid show tonight! Come look!"

Groaning, her legs stiff, Gina rose and trudged along the catwalk to the lighting booth, then downstairs to the house entrance, then across the painted floor to Alan waiting, grinning inexplicably, by the exit. "Check it out! This is so _cool!"_ he exclaimed.

She followed him through the green room to the back door. "Geez, that's cold, Alan! Don't leave the door open – our heating bills are high enough as it is, and I don't need another lecture from Mr Stingyfingers about keeping costs..." She trailed off, struck silent by the view outside.

Alan giggled at their pet name for the Sosilly's owner, and gestured out the open door into the courtyard formed by the surrounding buildings. "Snow!"

"Yeah, I know what it is, Alan," Gina muttered, then simply studied the thick, wet flakes shooting down. A strong gust battered the trees in the courtyard, making Gina draw back and shut the door. She continued to peer out the small window set in the top of the door, thinking. _Holy cow, that's a lot of snow! It's nearly a blizzard!_ Already, the small trees had a coating of thick whiteness on their still-leafy branches. As the two techies watched, an overloaded branch cracked off the ginkgo and tumbled to the paving. Gina shook her head. "This isn't good."

"Are you nuts? This is _great!_ No _way_ will they do that stupid awards thing tonight in all this!" Alan argued. "Who the heck is gonna want to come out in this storm just to hear some boring speeches and eat spaghetti? We can go home!"

Gina shook her head. "Don't count your chickens yet. Hang on." Retreating to the now-chilly lounge area of the green room, she pulled out her cell phone and the slim wallet hooked by a chain to her black jeans. She found the lawyer's card, and dialed the number. "Hello, I need to speak to...oh, it _is_ you, Mr Bland. This is Gina Broucek, at the Sosilly Theatre. Yes, we're...we're looking forward to it as well. Uh, Mr Bland, have you looked out your window?" The sky was so dark, the wind so fierce, she was certain this snowstorm must cover the entire city...probably all five boroughs and into Jersey and Pennsylvania.

The lawyer replied, in a tone of annoyance, "Yes...is there some problem?"

"I...I just wondered if you were going to call off the awards ceremony tonight. I mean, with weather like this, there's no way anyone is going to want to –"

"Miss Broucek," Bland said firmly, "I am quite sure _all_ of our distinguished donors are eager to attend tonight, and a little wet stuff is certainly not going to deter them!"

Astounded, Gina looked back out the window again. The snow blew nearly sideways, and the howl of the wind was deep and strong around the building. "Mr Bland, I really don't –"

 _"Miss_ Broucek. I understand, the _nonfelted_ may be put off by a little _precipitation,_ but I assure you: the awards will go on as planned, and you will be impressed at the level of dedication we _all_ give toward the cause of better Muppet representation in all levels of society! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have much to do before tonight. Oh—where'd I put the number for those table supply people again?...Excuse me, won't you? Good-bye."

Gina stared at the phone a moment, then frowned and put it back in her pocket. Alan's face fell at her expression. "They're not...they're not canceling? Or...or rescheduling? They're really gonna do their dumb ceremony tonight?"

"Yep," Gina said shortly. "Now get back to work on those platforms. Try to tape down all the dropcloth edges so nobody trips, and then start on the sound cables. These are lawyers, so make sure everything is up to OSHA specs."

"Maaaannn," Alan complained, shoulders dropping.

Gina sighed, and went to the 'fridge for the bottle of water she'd stashed there earlier. She shivered as she drank, and decided coffee was a better choice. The green room only had an old drip maker, but she started a pot in it anyway, then thought of Newsie. He'd been so disappointed last night; after the show, he'd been largely uncommunicative, and Gina knew it wasn't just because of the headache he'd suffered when that hail of rubber bouncy skulls had fallen on him during the News Flash. (Personally, she thought the line "the school superintendent said he will make _no bones_ about _denying_ the allegations of improper use of biology lab property" had been fairly innocuous, but a hundred hard rubber skulls proved that nothing was off-limits for a journalistic catastrophe in her poor Newsie's case.) She knew how much he wanted to investigate the sewer monsters...but the thought of something worse happening to him...

Shaking off a chill, Gina called home while waiting on the coffee to brew. A very reluctant-sounding Newsman answered. "Hello."

"Sweetie, it's me." She paused; she could hear his unhappiness in the silence. She sighed. "Cutie, listen, that ridiculous lawyer says the show is still on for tonight...so it looks like it's going to be a really long day here. It's just me and Alan, and we have to strike and re-set all the stuff these guys are using after their thing, so I don't know how late I'm going to be. How...how are you doing there?"

"Fine," Newsie replied dully.

"Pretty hard snow, huh? And it's not even winter yet," Gina said.

Uneasily, Newsie said, "Gina...it's a white storm."

"It definitely is! Make sure you stay warm, okay? As long as the power stays on, we should be fine here –"

"No, Gina...it's a _white storm._ A freak snowstorm, out of season! Just like Ethel said!"

Gina paled. _Oh frog._ She hadn't even thought about that. "Have you...have you tried the Mayor's office?"

"All the lines are busy! He must be flooded with calls about the storm," Newsie said disgustedly. "No one's paying attention! She said it would start in a white storm! Whatever those horrible things are planning, this is the start of it! We have to _do_ something!"

"No," Gina said firmly. "Newsie, _no._ Do _not_ go down there! Look, I...I know you asked your friends for help last night."

"You...you do?"

"Yes. Rizzo mentioned it while he was stealing some of my popcorn. He said you asked Floyd for Animal's help with something."

At the apartment, Newsie closed his eyes in a scowl, sinking onto the bed. He'd come in to figure out a better way to secure the bedroom window without nailing up boards. Gina hadn't given any indication last night that she knew he was trying to rally more Muppets for a reconnaissance into the tunnels. Why hadn't she said anything? Answering his unspoken question, Gina spoke softly, "Well, it...it was clear they said no, because you didn't say anything about it to me, and I know you would've argued for it if you thought you had enough backup to try again." She sighed. "Aloysius...please don't. Don't let it drive you crazy like this. _You are not the defender of the city,_ you know; you're just...um..."

"Just a stupid little reporter who doesn't even have a microphone to call my own anymore," Newsie snapped. "Just a helpless...powerless..." He choked up.

Gina winced. "Sweetie, no! Don't do that to yourself! Please...you're my hero, my love; don't feel like you have to take this all on by yourself!"

"Nobody else is doing anything!" Newsie shouted, then felt ashamed. "I'm...I'm sorry," he muttered.

Worried, Gina paced the green room, glancing out at the thick sheet of snow blurring the scenery. "Newsie...my love...please. Please calm down. Yes, this is serious, but working yourself into a frenzy isn't going to solve anything, okay?" She waited, hearing him sigh, and tried to think of the words which might comfort him. "Aloysius...I love you. I love you more than anything. And if you went down there, and never came back...I...I can't even contemplate that, okay?" She brushed back the tears trying to form, angrily glaring at the snow. "Just...don't. Promise me you won't. Look, what if..." she took a deep breath, regretting it already, but spoke her thought aloud: "What if I came with you? Tonight?"

"You – what?" Startled, Newsie shook his head vehemently, forgetting she wouldn't see it over a phone. "Gina, _no!_ Absolutely not! I don't want you hurt!"

"And I don't want _you_ hurt. Understand?"

"Well, but...but..."

"And I love that cute fuzzy butt, very much. So _wait for me._ When I get home tonight, we will gear up, and...and see what we can find out. Together." Gina sighed. "Okay?"

Newsie began sniffling. Trying to keep it out of his voice, his throat thick, he muttered, "I love you."

"And I you, my Aloysius. More than anything."

Wresting his emotion under control, Newsie picked one of the thoughts racing at random through his brain. "Uh...won't we need spelunking equipment or something?"

Gina couldn't help a chuckle at that. "Hall closet, top shelf, in the back."

He was astonished. "You have caving equipment?"

"Well, I have some old camping gear, from when Grandmama Angie would take me to Gypsy festivals upstate. We usually roughed it. I got rid of the tent years ago, but I think I still have Coleman lanterns and rope and iron tent stakes. Who knows what we'll run into down there. Um...grab the mousetraps, too."

Newsie's jaw dropped. "Gina! _Mousetraps?"_

"I know, I know, I should've just thrown them out...don't tell Rhonda, please," Gina sighed. "But who knows? They might come in handy."

"Gina, I...thank you," Newsie murmured, suffused with warmth.

"I _love_ you, my brave Newsman," she replied, smiling finally. "Look...it's going to be a while. You just prep the stuff and sit tight. Are you going to your theatre tonight?"

"I...I don't know...I should call Scooter, and see if we're still doing a show."

"Do that. And then _stay calm._ We will figure all this out...together."

"Together," he agreed, smiling faintly. He hung up after she did, and looked out at the snow. _I have the best girl in the world,_ he thought proudly. Still feeling anxious, he opened the Anti-Monsterphobia pill bottle and downed a couple of them. So far, he hadn't noticed any disturbing side effects, and they _did_ seem to calm him a little. He trotted back to the living room and looked at the gridded map of the tunnel system, the closest thing to a layout he had for determining the best place to infiltrate MMN. Studying the paw-drawn lines, he suddenly realized there was _one_ other person who _might_ go along with them, and hunted down his phone.

At the Sosilly, Gina poured a tall mug of the harsh coffee, wrinkling her nose at the first sip, then stirring in way too much sugar and fake-vanilla-creamer to disguise the burnt taste of it. She'd need the caffeine and the warmth. Maybe later, the caterers would bring something more drinkable? _Assuming they even show up,_ she realized. With a deep sigh, she walked all the way back up to the grid. _At least he won't run off and do anything stupid without me,_ she mused, shaking her head. _Yeah – it's so much better to do stupidly dangerous things together as a couple. Yay for romance._

Trying to ignore the unease rumbling within her, she told herself it was just the bad coffee, and bent to the task of focusing the lights again.


	47. Chapter 41-2

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE (part two). _In which Rhonda hears a frightening noise; a caterpillar is petted; and Slurg wants henchmen with brains._

Rhonda shivered violently, wishing her fur would hurry up and grow back already; not only was the ginger-fuzz all over her body embarrassing, but it was no help at all on a day like this. "This had better freaking be end-of-the-world level important," she muttered to herself as she jumped lightly up and down in the elevator to keep warm. The inside of the old Gothic-revival residence tower seemed little warmer than the freezing street; the lack of a wet, cold wind was the only advantage she could see. Clutching her thick quilted Eddie Bauer coat tighter around herself, Rhonda wondered if her job would be reinstated in time for her to afford a new coat soon...after all, cute as this one was, it was _so_ last year. Feeling highly disgruntled, she pounded on the apartment door, smiling grimly at the crash she heard inside. "Yeah, you _better_ jump," she growled.

The Newsman called through the door, "Who is it?"

"Meredith Viera," Rhonda shouted back.

A pause. "Really?"

"Would ya just open the danged door already?"

He did, and Rhonda stalked inside with her nose in the air. Her attitude was cut short when she saw the pile of things in the living room. "What the...Goldie, you plannin' on a Goodwill run for food money, or burning this stuff to keep warm?"

He scowled at her, bolting the door shut again. "This is...for the next expedition." He gazed hard at her. "Tonight."

Rhonda blinked at him, then backed away a step, raising her paws. "Oh...oh no. No no no! You're crazy if you think I'd even _consider –"_

Newsie flapped the map she'd drawn yesterday at her. "But we know where to go! We only have to get past the guards on three levels, and get down to that office, and see if—"

"What part of _you are out of your foambrained little head_ is not sufficiently _clear_ to you?" Rhonda yelled. "Is Animal gonna distract the guards? No! Are any of the other guys coming along to make some noise? No! Do we have any backup in case we get captured, strung on barbeque skewers and roasted alive as we most certainly _will? No!"_

"Gina's coming with us," Newsie said.

The rat stopped, mouth slack, eyes wide, whiskers sticking straight out. "She... _what?"_ Recovering, Rhonda shook her head. "Oh my frog. I knew it would happen one'a these days...you finally did it. You made her as obsessed with monsters as you are!"

"I'm not obsessed!" Newsie barked. He strode back to the sofa, and gestured at the notes spread on the coffee table over the stack of maps to the subways, the power conduit tunnels, the drainage system for the whole city. "Rhonda, in case you were too caught up in your own little rat world to notice, it is snowing outside!"

She regarded him sourly. "You're right. What rat would _ever_ notice a blinding, howling, fiercely wet hurricane-force gale blowing them across the street."

"Snow! A white storm! A freak, white storm! Don't you get it?" Newsie cried. "That's the sign my aunt warned us about! That's the sign that the monsters are starting their takeover!"

Sighing, Rhonda unwrapped her coat and scarf, pulled off her cute red galoshes and hopped onto the sofa by the nice warm heating grille. "Newsie, I hadda walk over here for over a block from the subway, and I promise you I saw _no_ monsters anywhere."

He stared at her, shocked. "You took the _subway?"_

"Before they made noises about shutting down the train, yeah! Look, Goldie, even if your aunt was right, what's so special about a snowstorm? Is their grand plan to take out all the trees in Central Park? 'Cause that's about the worst of it from what I could see...unless you count the poor schmuck I saw slippin' in the slush at the curb. Are wet cold bottoms part of the master plan?"

"Rhonda!"

The rat shivered once all over, her body adjusting to the cozy temperature inside the apartment. "Okay, okay, can the outrage, Sunshine. Pour me a cuppa and let's look at this nonsense again." Still scowling, the Newsman fetched her an espresso shot from the kitchen. Rhonda took it in one paw absently, sipping as she studied the map. She frowned abruptly.

"If we...if we can just figure out a way past the guard at the abandoned-subway-tunnel entrance, maybe we can use this side passage to find a shortcut to that lower level," Newsie suggested, tracing the possible route with a fuzzy yellow finger. He noticed Rhonda glaring at him, and stopped. "What?"

"You too cheap for whippy cream? I expect whippy cream."

"Rhonda – for crying out –" Exasperated, Newsie stood, wanting to fling his tie; he grabbed his glasses and cleaned them furiously with his clean hankie.

The rat, unmoved, held out her cup. "A big dollop. With some a' those cute little sugar-leaf sprinkles. Or no talk."

Grumbling under his breath, Newsie fixed the rat's coffee the way she preferred. When he returned and thrust the cup at her, she took it slowly and with grave dignity. _"Thank_ you. Manners will get you more places than frumpy attitudes."

"So will you come with us or not?" Newsie demanded.

Rhonda slurped her coffee, set the cup down reluctantly, and sighed. "Look, Goldie...it's like this. Much as I have always admired your go-getter, All-the-POTUS'-men outlook on journalism, this is just _way_ too risky. What were you _thinking,_ talking your girl into going on this suicide mission? There is _no way_ you two will be able to get in there without being spotted – and once they spot you, you're in for it! Didja ask Sweetums? Maybe Sweetums could run interference?"

"Kermit has him assigned to guarding the theatre," Newsie complained. "He said something about making sure the roof didn't get toilet-papered like last year...but I didn't talk Gina into coming! She volunteered!"

"Lemme guess, only because she knew you were so gung-ho you'd try to do it anyway?" The rat's shrewd little eyes stared him down; Newsie's gaze dropped, and he fought back a blush. "Listen, sweetheart...I hear ya. I really do. I agree, bad stuff is gonna happen unless someone does something about it..."

"Finally!" Newsie muttered, but she held up a shushing paw.

"However...that someone just can't be _you._ You're a Muppet!" He glared at her. She gestured at him exasperatedly. "Look at you! You're three feet tall! You got no muscles, no firepower, no secret superweapon!"

"Three-foot- _six,"_ he muttered.

Ignoring the interruption, Rhonda went on. "These guys are _huge!_ They got _teeth,_ they got _claws,_ they got nasty little bug-legs that make 'em crawl on the ceiling..." She shivered. "Ugh. Look...I'm not putting you down. Far from it. I'm _saying,_ be realistic! Scary as this sounds, there is _nothing we can do!_ Not without a _lotta_ help, and you tried, and nobody is gonna troop down there with you!"

"Gina will," Newsie protested. "And...and I thought...someone as small as a rat...could scout around corners...and help. A lot."

"Goldie...ya know I love ya like a brother. Truly I do. But I...but they..." She swallowed thickly, and turned frightened eyes up to him. "They were gonna _eat me._ And since I saw that footage, and saw just how freakin' _many_ of 'em there are down there...I...I can't. I'm sorry."

They fell silent. Newsie stared at the floor, ashamed. _How could I have expected her to put herself in danger again, after all that? She's right. There are a LOT of scary things down there. Maybe some we don't even know about yet._ Rhonda sighed, sipped more coffee, licked the whipped cream from her whiskers, and turned on the TV. "Look, I'll...I'll keep ya company. Why don't we check out that creepy channel? If they film everything down there, maybe...maybe some of the backgrounds on these shows will give us a clue. Maybe you can figure out where exactly they've got your cousin, okay?"

Newsie nodded, depressed. "Do you...do you think we can rescue him?"

Rhonda shrugged. "I don't know, Goldie. I honestly do not know. I think you'll be insanely lucky to get in and get out without being caught." The image flicked from the end of a spot for Happy Harvey's to a promo, with the MMN logo prominently featured.

"Tonight on MMN!" an announcer snarled. "You've rooted for them all season, you've seen their ups and downs and expensively painful crashes...now watch the final showdown! Gonzo the Great takes on the Finnish Fungus, Mungus Mumfrey, for the title of Most Stupendously Bonecrushing, Brainsmushing Act of _All Time,_ right here, on the final challenge of _Break a Leg!"_ A clip of Gonzo howling as he plummeted toward a stage full of pointy rakes and shovels played, then a shot of a fungus squeezing itself around a hail of sharp objects. A split-screen depicted Gonzo juggling jellyfish on the left, and a disturbingly shifting glob of whitish stuff flinging itself around atop a tank of floating fish bones on the right. "Your votes have brought them both this far; who will come out on top, and who will never come out alive? Tune in tonight at seven eastern for the championship bout of _Break a Leg,_ on your favorite channel for _all_ the best bloodletting and foamshredding, MMN!"

"Gonzo's still down there," Newsie pointed out, excited. "Maybe he could help us! I bet he knows ways around the monsters! He's good at getting out of danger!"

"Danger he throws himself in the way of first and only survives 'cause Death has a sense of humor," Rhonda muttered. "Do ya think they see him as another monster?"

"I don't know," Newsie mused. "He...he _is_ a little Fracklish, I've always thought..."

"Maybe if you could locate him, he could get you past the guards," Rhonda said thoughtfully. She reached for her coffee once more as a game show seeming to involve trivia for fish inside an enormous water-tank came back from commercial, when suddenly she clapped her hands to her ears and shrieked. _"Aaaaagh what the frog is that!"_

Startled, Newsie's eyes shot all around, but he saw nothing out of place in the room. "What? What is it?"

"That sound! Aaaaaagh! Turn it off! Turn it off!"

Newsie hit the mute button on the TV remote, and grabbed Rhonda's arms, concerned. "Rhonda? What noise? What is it?"

She panted, eyes wide, shaking all over. "Oh frog...oh frog..."

He shook her gently. "Rhonda! There's no noise! Rhonda!"

She stared up at him, shivers coursing through her still. "You...you didn't hear it?"

Newsie frowned. "I...I heard a second of some kind of signal...like that emergency-alert system beeping." He looked at the television; a shark was angrily shouting at someone who looked a lot like a very soaked Lew Zealand. Bizarre...but not really scary, as long as one wasn't within biting range of that shark.

"Turn it...turn it on again..." Rhonda said, and covered her ears, cringing.

"But –"

"Do it. You'll hear it then!"

Baffled, Newsie turned the sound back on. The angry Great White was yelling, "I'm _winning_ this game, you scrawny plaid appetizer. Get that?" at a yellow Muppet in a flimsy inflatable lifeboat.

"Hey – that's Chester! Chester's on this show!" Newsie said, leaning closer for a better look; though wet and frightened, that was definitely recognizable as his cousin. "At...at least he's still alive..." He noticed a thin, high-pitched sound, like microphone feedback but fainter, behind the yelling and splashing onscreen. He looked back at the sofa to see his reports producer writhing in pain; she began moaning, her paws pressing her ears so tightly they were flattened into her mussed blond hair. "Rhonda?"

"...off..." she gasped. Newsie immediately clicked the sound off again. Eyes shut, Rhonda collapsed into the cushions, drawing ragged breaths.

"I...I don't understand," he said. "Is it some kind of high-frequency signal? Like those roach-control things they advertise?"

"Do I look like a froggin' roach to you?" the rat demanded. Slowly she sat up, still looking dazed. "Oh my frog, you _really_ didn't hear that?"

"I heard some kind of whine, like feedback, in the background," Newsie said, confused. "It...it was a little irritating, but..."

"That is...the scariest noise...I have _ever_ heard," Rhonda gasped. "Took all I had not to run screaming and hide under the bed! How is that _not_ affecting you?"

"Maybe it's a rat thing?"

In the hall outside, a low groan built into a lung-breaking scream; startled, Newsie hurried to the door and fumbled for the key to the speakeasy-window the lockmonster had installed. Flinging the tiny window open, he saw one of his neighbors, a portly retiree clad only in tighty whiteys and an open bathrobe, fleeing past; the man ran smack into the closed elevator doors, slumping with a groan. Worried, Newsie opened the apartment door, checking up and down the hallway, but saw nothing out of place. An open door at the far end blared out what sounded like more of the game show; Newsie heard the shark and Lew yelling. "Um...hello? Are you all right, sir?" Newsie asked, cautiously approaching the downed man. After a moment of frantic thought he recalled the neighbor's name. "Er...Mr Bender? Is something wrong?"

The man's head jerked around so fast he must have suffered whiplash, and his eyes were wide behind bifocals knocked askew. "Get away! Get away from me! Aaaaaaah!" he shrieked. The elevator door dinged open, and Bender fell into the car. He staggered to his feet and began hitting every button on the wall. "They're coming! They're coming! _Aaaaaaaagh!"_

The elevator closed, transporting the manic pensioner to several other floors. Stunned, Newsie looked back at the man's abandoned apartment. Checking the hall once more and finding all else quiet and normal again, he padded in his slippers down to the open apartment and gently shut the door. When he returned, Rhonda had vanished. "Rhonda? Rhonda, I'm not sure what's going on, but that man...Rhonda?"

After a few minutes of searching, he found the rat wedged into one of the storage drawers built under the platform bed. "Rhonda, it was just one of the neighbors...he seemed a little crazed, but not dangerous. Are you okay?"

She refused at first to be helped out of the drawer, bundling herself in one of Gina's cashmere sweaters. "N-no! Go away! It's coming! Save yourself!"

Realizing that his neighbor's TV had indeed been tuned to MMN, Newsie asked, "Why aren't I affected? What is the sound? Does it sound like monsters to you?"

"It's...it's...I can't explain it," Rhonda muttered, blinking hard to clear her vision, reluctantly climbing from the drawer. She brought the sweater with her, wrapping it around herself so that only her eyes and shivering nose showed. "It made me feel...terrified! Like...like my only chance at survival was to run...and run...and run..."

"MMN is broadcasting some kind of terror sound," Newsie guessed. "Something that makes people so afraid they can't defend themselves! This has to be what Ethel meant – this must be the start of it!" He shook his head, frustrated. "But why isn't it affecting _me?"_

Rhonda glared at him, walking very slowly back to the living room with him. "Got me, Goldie...if _anyone_ should be freaking out here, it oughta be you! Makes zero sense to me!" She stared at the muted TV.

Newsie slumped on the sofa, trying to puzzle it through. "So...the monsters are sending out a fear signal through that station...kind of like the fear additive in the snack cakes! They must want everyone who hears it to be so paralyzed they can gobble them up without resistance! I...I did hear a sound...but..." He shook his head. "It's not making me scared!" _Although if they have the technology to do that...they could broadcast it at will...and if the signal reached enough people, the city would be defenseless!_ Now that thought _did_ frighten him. Newsie pulled out the pill bottle and twisted off the cap, shaking another capsule into his palm.

"What are you, House all of a sudden?" Rhonda demanded. Then her whiskers twitched. "Newsie! That's the stuff the lab boys gave you?"

"Yes," Newsie replied, giving her a perplexed look.

She snapped her fingers. "That's it! How many a' those you taken today?"

"Er...this makes five," he admitted. Defensively, he tucked the bottle away again, curling his fingers over the pill. _"You're_ the one who told me to load up on them!"

"Duh!" Rhonda smacked his arm. "That's it! It's a monster-fearing signal! You're taking anti-monster-fear drugs! You're immune!"

"I'm..." His eyes brightened.

She smacked his elbow again. "Newsie! You've conquered your monsterphobia!"

He frowned at the pill. "I guess so...but what happens when I run out of these?"

"Get Melonhead to make you more. Go on, take that thing. And give me one."

"You?"

"Well, if I'm gonna dig my own grave, I may as well whistle while I do it."

"Dig your own..."

"Just gimme a pill, Sunshine. And a coffee refill. Oh, and ya might wanna grab some spot cleaner for your rug over here. I kinda spilled some."

Newsie fumbled another pill out for her, then sat staring at the TV, not daring to turn the sound back up. On the screen, Snookie Blyer was fighting free of a shark attack in a crowd full of rowdy sea monsters. Newsie shuddered. "At least...at least he's still alive..."

"Nah, seen this one, it's a rerun."

He stared at her. "What? You watch this stuff?"

"I told you that a week ago, genius. Brain like a loofa."

"So...so he might..." Newsie gulped. Rhonda patted his hand.

"Focus, Goldie, focus. C'mon, we gotta have this layout memorized so we don't get lost down there. We gotta find Gonzo if we want any kind of safe passage."

Newsie stared at her in stunned silence a long while. Ignoring him, she slupped coffee, unwinding the sweater from her shoulders. Another game show, some sort of "Bachelor"-type dating contest, came on; Rhonda glanced at it, noted a glass door in the background, and began skimming through the footage on Newsie's laptop, certain she'd seen that exact door from the other side while Sweetums was touring the studios. Newsie blinked, trying to regroup. Finally he asked, "Rhonda...doing anything tonight?"

She snorted. "Same thing we do every night, Goldie...try to stop the monsters from taking over the world." She glared at his tentative smile, and held out a paw. "I don't feel _nearly_ brave enough yet. Gimme another fear-popper."

In a drainage tunnel beneath Bowery, two burly, thick-furred monsters checked the worm: it was still shrieking, but seemed to be tiring. Malf sighed, adjusting his earmuffs better around his long bullish horns. "This thing's gotta shut up soon," he shouted. "It must be freezing to death by now!" Clasping his arms around his barrel chest, he shivered. "Know I am, anyway. Brrrr!"

 _"What?"_ yelled his compatriot, a green-furred thing resembling a cross between a pit bull and a horned gopher, with an underbite so large it engulfed his nose.

Malf leaned closer, careful not to touch the giant centipede still thrashing in its chains, held close to the surface where the snow blew in on it through a sewer opening. He'd been told the prickle of spikes all over the creature's body were poisonous. Enraged by the cold, the monstrous insect screamed and writhed. "I _said,_ this thing must be gettin' tired! Hope it shuts up soon so we can go back down and grab some coffee!"

"Yeah, the tape's still rolling," Flurg grunted, checking the reel-to-reel as well as the live feed, a wireless mic's light blinking as it transmitted the supersonic screech of the tortured monster back to the control hub. He clamped his paws together, rubbing the pads roughly. "Sure is cold. Don't blame the durn thing for hating it."

"What?" Malf shouted, trying to hear anything past the muffled scream; his earmuffs protected him from the worst effects, but he still felt uneasy, moreso than the cold would explain. Irritated, Flurg waved him off, and knelt in the dirty snowmelt coating the tunnel to check the input level of the mic, making sure the highest-hertz notes were being recorded. His own taste ran more to adult contemporary, but if the boss wanted a recording of the centipede song, a recording of the centipede song he would get. The grumpy monster sighed, and wiped a paw over his chin, unable to reach his sniffly nostrils. _Blugh. When this is done, I'm goin' back to my cell and enjoying a hot cuppa Joe and puttin' on that new Wayne and Wanda LP. Day like this, ya oughta stay comfy indoors._

They stood, shuffling from foot to foot in the biting wet cold, waiting for the centipede to shut up, as it continued to wriggle and snap and scream, and scream, and scream.

Alone in his control room, the underlord noted the peaks and valleys of the sonogram tracking the creature's agony, and smiled. He leaned back in his enormous chair, stroking his sleepy caterpillar, and felt a rising glee at the thought that at this very minute, the signal was going out all over the city, perhaps farther, and anyone tuned in to their favorite MMN daytime programming would be overcome with horror—helpless- hopeless. He made a mental note to check the statistics for a jump in suicide rates at the hospitals tonight. _Tonight,_ he thought in grim pleasure, _they will finally discover the meaning of this studio, this company of fiends...and they will at last know the power of the Malevolent Monster Network!_

His laugh disturbed his pet; she bit his finger hard, injecting more venom. He laughed all the harder, hissing in delight at the pain and the numbness flowing up his arm. Disgusted, the giant caterpillar resettled and went back to her nap. She loved her master, but he could be so danged _moody_ sometimes.

In the gusts of white wetness, a bus wheezed into the Greyghoul Station depot next to the Port Authority, depositing three unhappy creatures among the snowy benches and dirty ashtrays before heading off to Brooklyn on its limited route. The goblin picked himself out of the slushpile he'd landed in, grumbling as he wiped off his bare arms. The wolfish thing looked up at the completely overcast sky, shivering. Only Slurg seemed intent on their mission, casting shifty eyes about until he figured out what direction they ought to travel. He gestured uptown. "Come on, you laggards! Move it!"

"But Slurg..."

 _"Captain_ Slurg!"

The other two groaned. The goblin asked, "Look, c'mon, do we _really_ have to walk in this? Why don't we catch a cab, grab a bite, and _then_ head over?"

Slurg's piranha-like teeth showed when he curled his lip in disgust. "We don't have the money for a cab, much less a nice little luncheon, you simpleton! We have an assignment still to accomplish here!"

The goblin rolled his eyes, shivering; he plucked a crumpled newspaper from a trash can and tried to wrap it around himself for warmth. "Who needs money? I _said_ catch a cab and grab a bite!"

Burt Wolf-thing shook his head. "Cabbies in midtown don't taste as juicy as the ones on Staten Island..."

"Well, they gotta be tastier than the hicks in the sticks! That trucker in Poughkeepsie was _awful!_ And he drove badly, too!"

"Agents!" Slurg barked. "Enough! _Nobody_ eats and _nobody_ rests until we get that d—d girl, get me? Now double-time, maaaarch! That way! And you, Andy – get on the radio. Tell 'em we need...The Bug."

"But Slurg –" the goblin whined.

 _"Captain Slurg d—it!_ What is it?!"

"Burt ate the radio. I think that was back in Tarrytown."

Slurg gnashed his multiple rows of teeth. "I was _hungry,"_ Burt growled.

Slurg waved his claws irritably. "Fine! Fine! Then _first_ we have to go get another radio! Sniff me out a pawnshop, you glutton! It's about time we employed some special tactics...and got this crackerjack assignment done for good!"

Burt perked. "Ooh. I likes Crackerjacks!"

"Slap him, or I will," Slurg ordered Andy. He turned and headed toward a likely-looking street of storefronts, only moderately pleased by the slap and yelp behind him. His disgruntled field agents fell in step, and the trio of grumbling monsters trudged through the thick slush in the gutter along the street, invisible in the blanket of windblown snow still pouring from gloomy skies.


	48. Chapter 42-1

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO (part one). _In which votes don't matter; Gina and Sal discuss the finer points of catering and lackeyship; and Snookie worries about someone other than himself._

Rosie McGurk walked very slowly past the call-in voting phone bank, pretending to study the checklist on his clipboard, in actuality hoping to overhear what the last vote results had been, to better gauge Gonzo's chances in the final tonight. He wasn't sure whether Lamb's elimination had been a good thing or not...although he had to admit to himself, those shanks with harissa rub had been pretty darn tasty. Feigning deep concentration, McGurk squinted all three eyes and perked his horns carefully toward the double-header and the triple-header chatting at the table.

"Uhhh...mabibba Gazza fooboo arrabba!" the purple head with upturned horns suggested.

"Nah, nah, nah – bugooba raffa muggah!" argued his downturned-horned other half. Rosie frowned, puzzled by the odd language, then noticed both halves were using an awful lot of hand gestures. _Ahh,_ he thought sagely, _deyz eye-tallan!_

"Eh, you're _both_ nuts," the middle head of the pink-furred triple-header scoffed. "That fungus doesn't have a chance in a Petri dish of surviving this!"

"Unh?" Both heads of the purple monster blinked in surprise, and one goatee and one mop of hair were scratched in confusion.

"Yeah, not a chance!" The leftmost head of the triple-header agreed. Rosie felt suffused with pride. And those guys in the cell block thought they'd be winning the betting pool tonight! _Hah!_ Only Rosie had backed Gonzo to go all the way!

"Oobibbuh mooga habba?" Horns-down asked. His companion nodded, scowling, and poked the triple-header, for once agreeing with his other half.

"Yeaahhhh! Bubboo oobah fruggah?" Horns-up demanded.

The right head of the triple-header managed a shrug. "Well, no, not really! See, it really doesn't matter _how_ many people vote for Mumfrey tonight!"

"Nah madda?" Horns-up wondered.

"Nah, doesn't matter! D'ya really think Gonzo got past the last round with that stupid, sappy song?" the middle head chuckled. Rosie froze.

"Buh ibabba mooga vuttuh pagga!" Horns-down argued, picking up a phone and waving it around for emphasis.

Lefthand-head nodded. "Yeah, don't worry, we get paid anyway! Just...answer 'em, and make it look good, okay? We got a lot of monsters watching at home!"

Shocked, Rosie dropped his pencil. All five heads swiveled in his direction immediately. "Hey, no peeking at the results! You gotta wait like everyone else!" the middle of the triple-header scolded. Abashed, Rosie retrieved his pencil and hurried back to the waiting area behind the stage platform. Seeing Gonzo testing one of the flaming hoops, Rosie debated telling him what he now suspected: that the contest might not be a fair fight.

Gonzo observed the sparks and sputters of the orange-burning kerosene-drenched straw wreath-on-a-stick, and then, satisfied with its burn speed, handed it to a stagefrackle. "Great...make sure everyone lights 'em at the same time, okay?" Discomfited, the Frackle juggled the superhot hoop before thinking to shove it into the large ice-filled cooler among the bottled water. Gonzo turned to Rosie, smiling. "Does the sound tech have the music? I think these guys know their cues finally...I've been drilling them all afternoon."

"Uh...yagga," Rosie said. "Gazza...ahhh...sumba nohga..."

"What?" Gonzo grasped his assistant's arm in concern. "The dry-cleaners didn't mess up the wizard robe, did they? Costume is kind of key here –"

"Nagga, nagga," Rosie gulped, uncertain how to broach this. "Gazza...da votah..."

"I know! I must have an _amazing_ amount of grassroots support by now!" Gonzo glanced up at the rough-rock ceiling. "Well, some kinda roots, anyway..."

Shaking his head, Rosie tried again. "Gazza – da votah _nah mattah!_ Tribba-hebba sezza!" He gestured worriedly at the phone bank.

Gonzo stared at him. "Oh, come on, Rosie! Don't tell me you're listening to _anything_ that guy says! He can't even agree with himself! Er...herself and himself... themselves...how would you put that, anyway?"

"Buh...buh Gazza..."

"No more! Not another word! I don't want a hint of negative attitude tonight, Rosie!" Taking a breath that expanded his chest very little in the tight, sequined black leotard he wore, Gonzo thrust his arms at the world above. "Finally, _finally,_ I have _found my audience!_ They have _spoken,_ and I am _here,_ Rosie! The finals! The ultimate contest between suave, sophisticated, _complicated_ post-Freudian symbolism and—" He shot a contemptuous glare at the fungus doing chin-ups off a stage truss a few yards away. "And the _banal._ And tonight, I am utterly confident: _Art will win!_ Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Rosie stood there, dismayed, until Gonzo thwapped the clipboard with an impatient hand. "Come on, come on, we have a lot of prep still to do and the show starts in an hour and a half! Finish that list, Rosie! Oh – and tell the little guys to take the longest sticks, or else this whole thing'll just look _weird,_ okay?"

One of the goblins whom Gonzo gestured at scrunched pouty green cheeks. "He did _not_ just pull the _height_ card, did he? _Did_ he?"

A skinny yellow Frackle with a finch-beak shrugged. "Dunno...what _I_ wanna know is, who the heck is Art?"

Fortunately, the catering company did indeed show up, although both Gina and Alan were taken aback at the astonishing number of monkeys who dashed back and forth between the green room and the buffet tables. Since the gorilla setting up the tables and the chimps throwing down various plates, silverware caddies, and little plastic pumpkins filled with after-dinner mints seemed to have everything under control...more or less...the human employees stayed clear of the chaos. A sleek-haired, green-felted Muppet in a sharkskin jacket gestured vaguely with an unlit cigar. "Yeah, dat's it, put da meatballs over dere – no, you hairy oaf, over _dere,_ next to da noodle warmer, capiche?" He shook his head, noticed Gina watching him, and gave a lopsided smile. "Dese guys. Enthusiastic for sure, but not so good in the organization department, ya know?"

"Dat's why ya got me, Johnny," a long-armed, ginger-furred ape proclaimed, pausing in his gyrations around the tables.

"Oh, is _dat_ why?" Johnny Fiama grunted. "And here I t'ought it was for your brilliant sense a' humor, Sal. Hey – hey you guys! Stop helpin' yourselves to da coffee urn! Dat's for da guests!"

"Hey! Johnny says stay outta da urn, you numbskulls!" Sal repeated, charging over to the silver-plated urn, where two smaller monkeys reluctantly removed the cups they'd been dipping inside it.

"Can I getcha a cuppa Joe?" Johnny offered Gina. "On da house."

"Um...no, thanks."

"Eh, don't blame ya." Johnny shrugged, looking the much taller young woman up and down with an appreciative eye. "So what's your story, toots? You wit' dese Muppet-rights guys?"

"Not really...I work here," Gina responded, crossing her arms over her chest. She'd changed into her running blacks, suitable for staying unnoticeable while in the lighting booth, but the clingy leggings and soft tunic suddenly made her feel a little more visible.

"Ah, gotcha! So, what, you an actress? No, wait – a dancer," Johnny said, snapping his fingers and grinning. "Sure got the legs for it, don't she, Sal?"

"Uh—yeah, Johnny; legs, sure t'ing," Sal agreed, nodding at Gina before he dashed into the green room after the gorilla. "Hey! Hey! Bring dat podium back here, dey need dat for da stage!"

Unmoved by the racket of a dozen primates all carrying warmer trays of food or armfuls of gel flame, Johnny offered, "Ya know, I don't gots my playhouse anymore, but I know a guy who knows a guy who is da single biggest employer of exotic dancers in da Village right now, and who knows? I might be able ta get ya an audition."

"Thanks, but no," Gina said firmly. "I'm just a techie, Mr Fiama. I don't get onstage."

"Call me Johnny, please," the Muppet insisted. Suddenly he snapped his fingers again. "Waaaaitaminute...I know where I seen ya before! Dis summer, up at da Crusty Lake Resort and Casino, in da Catskills! Yeah, dat's it...I was a little too hungov—ah, _incapacitated_ one Sattiday to go onstage, so dey had some lameo magician guy instead...but he had dis _amazing_ assistant..."

"Wasn't me," Gina said immediately. "Excuse me, Mr Fiama, I really have to discuss the lighting cues with the show director."

He waved a generous hand. "Eh, dat's okay sweetheart, it's time I blew dis joint anyway. Sal, make sure ya wash _all_ da dishes tonight, not just da warmer trays! An' polish da silverplate before ya put it away!"

The monkey skidded to a surprised halt. "But – but Johnny! Ain't you stickin' around too?"

"For what, da most boringest speechifyin' since dat roast of Papa Gambino a couple years ago? Fuhgeddaboudit! _Ivanka_ is expectin' me to grace her Halloween party shortly!" He winked at Gina. "She's blonde, cute, and loaded – and did I mention _blonde?_ How could I say no, ya know? _Ciao_ , Sal! Hold da fort! I'm countin' on you!"

"Ivanka? Johnny, you can't get into Trump Tower widdout an invite!" Sal protested, but Fiama only grinned, spreading his arms wide to show off his stylish attire.

"Sal, _bubbe,_ how is she gonna resist _this?_ Please! Seeya, toots—and if ya change your mind about dat dancin' gig, you just give me a ring, okay? _Arrivaderci,_ and, uh – enjoy your speeches, guys!" Still smirking, Johnny strolled out of the theatre.

Sal stood there shaking his head. "I _hate_ it when he does dat."

"Oh, frog...Muppet lawyer, eleven o'clock," Alan muttered as he hurried by, doing his best to stay away from everyone as he finished setting up for the sound check.

Gina looked down, startled at something cold in her hand; Sal pressed the chilled energy drink can firmly into her palm. "Somet'in tells me you're gonna need dis," the ape said.

"Something tells me you're right," Gina said, managing a smile. "Thanks."

Sal smiled back, then jumped at the gorilla lumbering past carrying a ten-foot-high stack of folding chairs. "No, no, _no!_ Not on _top_ a' da tables, you maroon! Where'd you loin ta set a buffet, Kazacklystan?"

The lugubrious orange-felted lawyer bellied up to the stage platform, peering carefully at everything before turning to Gina. "I see things seem to be progressing about on schedule. Good, good. Now, we've polished the program for tonight and I would like to go over it with you to ensure there are no mistakes..."

"Right, sure," Gina said. "Mr Bland, you should know we're working a little short-staffed tonight; only myself and one other technician are –"

"Oh! So we only have to pay for two crew members? Hah – I _knew_ your supervisor sounded like a _reasonable_ man. How nice that he took steps to reduce our cost! That will help the charity coffers significantly!" Bland smoothed down his blue mustache happily.

Gina started to correct him, then thought, _Why bother? Just get through this nonsense, and go home... Well, maybe by the time you actually get out of here, it'll be too late to worry about a sewer expedition._ Her beloved Muppet, though tightly wound by nature, did eventually crash and sleep, usually quite hard; maybe he'd fall asleep before she arrived home. With a forced smile, she accepted the program for the event which the lawyer handed her, and invited him to walk up to the booth to see the lighting cues, hoping he wouldn't demand any more changes; tonight was going to be difficult enough already. Walking ahead of Bland, she popped open the energy drink and quaffed a long gulp. _Hope they brought more of these._

One way or another, it would be a long, long night.

Snookie glared at the wardrobe goblin. "Forget it! I am _not_ wearing that ridiculous thing!"

"But we're promoting the Pumpkin Hour special," the goblin argued, shoving the ridiculous thing back at Snookie. "Boss' orders! Everything is big-time Halloween stuff from here on out!" It gestured at its own floppy-soggy, straw-stuffed arms. "You think I _wanted_ ta look like frickin' Ray Bolger?"

"This is outrageous," Snookie growled, snatching the pumpkin-suit of orange plaid coat, orange plaid pants, and ribbony green tie out of the grubby hands. "Fine. Whatever. But this is the dumbest idea I've heard in a long while, and _that's_ saying a lot!"

The goblin shrugged. "Don't forget the mask."

"Absolutely not!" the show host huffed, angrily stripping off his usual brown plaid to put on the ugly coat in four shades of orange, each louder than the last. _"Nothing_ covers this handsome face!"

The goblin shrugged again, walking away with the jack-o-lantern mask. "Divas..." it muttered.

"Plaicezzz!" Pew shrieked, stomping across the stage. When a stagefrackle tried to hand the director his headset, Pew snarled and would have backhanded the feathery monster, had the Frackle actually been on Pew's left; instead, a boom mike swung crazily out of position, victim of the director's wrath.

Snookie paused in his outfit-changing. "What's with him?"

A camerafrackle shook his long snout. "Eh, he's been in a nasty mood a couple'a days now...something about a pig turning him down for a date."

"Uhm." Nervously, Snookie turned to look into the overcrowded audience; sure enough, Carl the Big Mean Fan was front and center again...and tonight he had a guest. Quickly finishing his costume change, Snookie hastened to the front of the stage, nimbly dodging the claws which tried to grab him, and crouched in front of the tall grey monster. Tonight, Carl sported a long black box which nearly covered him, with "RIP" painted in a white scrawl across the front. Next to him, sitting so stiffly straight Snookie wondered if she had a board strapped to her back, was a blue-felted girl with pink splotches all over; she wore a pair of rubber horns and a fake nose attached to fake glasses and a fake mustache. It had to be the worst monster disguise ever contrived, but whether they were too afraid of Carl to say anything or just too stupid to see past the Groucho get-up, none of the surrounding audience members paid any attention to the Whatnot.

"What the heck are you supposed to be?" Snookie asked Carl.

The monster grinned, and opened the top half of his box to offer Snookie a small wrapped candy. "Hi! Coffin drop?"

Snookie shook his head, and then hissed at Constanza, "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here! Didn't you notice the crowd in here is not exactly Muppet-friendly?"

"Didn't you notice I don't have many options?" she snapped back, holding up her left wrist; a springy orange leash led back to Carl. "Why are _you_ here? Didn't you just get...um..."

 _"Expelled_ is the word you're looking for," Snookie grumbled. "Yeah, guess I forgot to sign up for the vacation cruise in time and got stuck here. Silly me."

"Relax, Snookums," Carl said, patting Constanza on top of her head; angrily she readjusted the rubber horns. "I'm takin' good care of your scrumptious little blueberry, see? She's safe as can be around me. I'd never eat a good _sous chef_ – it's not like any of these morons could make a decent cream _roux!_ Hey, but what's up with Lamb being knocked out of the contest? I thought he was winning!"

Snookie shrugged. "Got me. The judges said the tallies last time had Gonzo and the fungus ahead by a hair."

Carl snickered. "By a nose and a blue cheese, ya mean! Look, do me a solid here, Snookums: can you make sure whoever loses gets sent to my kitchen? I mean, don't get me wrong, I _love_ cookin' you...but a good chef needs to expand his repertoire, ya know?"

"I'll see what I can do," Snookie said dully. Carl grinned widely. Constanza frowned. Snookie looked back at her. "Listen, if he pulls anything weird with you –"

"Sure, I'll tell you," she growled. "Oh, my hero. I feel _so_ protected."

Blushing, Snookie glared at her, then jabbed a finger into Carl's poufy nose. "I _mean_ it, Carl! Break our deal and I'll make you so sick you'll bring up stuff you'd forgotten you ate decades ago!"

Carl blinked. "Well that ain't gonna happen, lemoncheeks. I _never_ forget anything I ate!" He flapped an enormous paw at the stage. "Go get this thing started! I wanna see some good ol' fashioned Halloween carnage!"

At a loss for a reply, Snookie glowered at him, glanced again at a puzzled-seeming Constanza, then stalked to the back of the platform to see if the judges and performers were set. Constanza nudged Carl uneasily. "Does he host _this_ show too?"

Carl chuckled. "This and about a hundred other crappy shows! Eh, he's just lucky he's got _me_ to take some of the burden off him. Hey, wait'll you see what I got comin' up on Monday for _Monsters Tonight!_ It'll blow Leno right outta the water!"

The Whatnot girl looked around at the noisy, restless monsters completely filling the studio audience, and shivered. Reluctantly, she shifted a little closer to Carl. She watched Blyer conferring with that weird blind shaggy thing, the same thing that had tried to bring her flowers one day shortly before Carl had dragged her... Suddenly Constanza had an idea as to what the deal Carl and Blyer had struck might be. She looked at the ravenous monster again, then back at the host. Suddenly she felt bad for having snapped at him. Maybe she would try to say something nice to him...before Carl ate him again...

Gonzo bounced lightly on tiptoe, muttering, "Rubber baby buggy bumpers...rubber baby bumper buggies...buggy rubby bumping babies..."

Rosie McGurk regarded the waiting stacks of flammable hoops with an uneasy flutter in his stomach. "Uhh...flabba huppa za goog idah?"

"Huh? Oh, sure! Sure it is!" Gonzo said. "They said this had to be Halloween-themed, and hey, _nothing_ says crazy-trick-night like flaming hoops of hay, right? Rosie, this is _deeply_ symbolic! Did you know the Celts used to pass all their animals through hoops of fire on Samhain, to protect them against evil spirits?" Gonzo clapped his dubious partner on the shoulder. "Trust me! This is old-school, and classy as heck! Besides, I worked out the ratio of kerosene to sparkly additives finally, so nothing should explode this time."

Rosie cast a worried look at the giant screen overhead.

Snookie checked with the judges, each attired festively tonight, to see what would be first. "You're kidding, right?"

Behemoth frowned. "Do I look like I'm kiddin'?" he demanded. The deely-bobbers sticking up from his round head quivered. Oversize black rubber claws covered his own mitts, and an uncomfortable-looking fake tail made of aluminum cans fastened together and painted black clanked as he shifted in his chair. "Look, we ran outta money for guest acts, so it's all you, chump."

"I can't sing!" Snookie protested. "Why don't _you_ do it? You're, what, an alligator tonight?"

"Alligator!" Hem growled. "Clearly you ain't familiar with the terryfyin' art of H R Giger! Yo, Tiny, get out here and show the man the whole costume!"

Shakey popped out of Hem's mouth, balancing shakily on his broad tongue; the diminutive monster had been spraypainted a shiny black. "R-raaarrr," Shakey stammered, sticking his own tiny tongue out.

"That is the _best_ Alien I ever seen," Beautiful Day said.

"Thanks!"

"What about you?" Snookie asked B D.

"Can't," the square-headed beast replied smugly. "I'm doin' a trombone solo at halftime. An' Pew's got the end credits. You gotta do the opening, or we run short." The judge had taken a more lighthearted approach to costume night, donning a long white curly wig, black robes, and a heavy noose around his neck. "I know you can't really compete with me playing 'I Love a Parade' while dangling from the rafters, but give it your best shot, dude."

"You know that's not what a 'hanging judge' _is,"_ Snookie snapped, then strode off before the monsters could react. He accosted Pew. "Hey! What's this mess about me having to sing something? That's not in my contract!"

"Fine," Pew shrugged. "Then eet _is_ in your contract for zat reedeculous bunneh to eat you alive in front of _alllll_ ze viewairs, eef zat is what you would prefairrr..."

Snookie looked across the platform at Carl. Noticing the attention, the monster waved cheerfully. Constanza shrank into her seat a little more. Snookie swallowed dryly. "What do I have to sing?"

The house lights dimmed, the band played the theme song with exaggerated movements that showed off their glowing skeleton costumes, and a very anxious host stepped into the spotlight. "Tonight! For weeks you've seen them get maimed, enflamed, and shamed by their own actions...and finally it's come down to the final two contestants! Each of them is fearless, senseless, and members of freak genetic sprouts off the tree of evolution, but which of them will emerge alive from this show – the scariest, freakiest, and possibly bloodiest episode ever oooof... _Break a Leg!"_ The crowd yelled out the title along with Snookie, cheering wildly. Snookie saw flickering light over his shoulder, and knew that clips of both contestants were playing behind him on the big screen. "Mungus Mumfrey has proven he has the guts...or whatever...to take this to the next level, but the Great Gonzo has a history of not even knowing _where_ levels are and forging ahead regardless of the danger! Our judges have specified that tonight's acts must be themed around the approaching holiday in some fashion, and they're expecting both performers to push above and beyond anything we've seen before in order to win the title of Most Astoundingly Braindead Stunt Ever!" He heard cheers, boos, and the clapping of heavy paws as past footage of the two daredevils played.

Taking a deep breath, Snookie continued, "But before we get into the bloodbath almost certain to follow, let's take a moment to think about the significance of our upcoming national night of nightmares, your favorite party and mine: Halloween!" The audience quieted as the lighting shifted, orange lights softly playing over the stage. Snookie took a couple of steps forward until he could clearly read the words on the TeleMonSter screen at the front of the platform; Pew frantically tried to cue a hot dog vendor. The band looked confusedly at one another a moment and then launched into the gentle, touching holiday classic. Awkwardly, trying to find his range, Snookie followed the lead of the purple monster conducting, and sang:

 _Children roasting on an open fire_  
 _millipedes nipping at their toes_  
 _midnight woes being screamed in the mire_  
 _and the quicksand sucking down their throes..._  
 _everybody knows a bonfire built of corpses_  
 _helps to make the season bright..._  
 _tiny goblins with their eyes all aglow_  
 _will keep the nervous tykes awake all night!_

 _They know that monsters are lurking near_  
 _happy to gobble up all the little dears_  
 _and every bogeyman will jump out soon_  
 _when every werewolf's howling at the moon!_

 _So I'm offering this simple praise_  
 _to things with crawly legs from none to ninety-two:_  
 _although it's been said many times, many ways,_  
 _Happy Fright Night to you..._  
 _Happy scary frightful night, to youuuu._

The crowd roared...and shrieked, and screeched, and pounded their seats and their neighbors, some of whom took offense and pounded back. Snookie backed away nervously, his tongue feeling like sandpaper, desperately wishing to be far, far out of this place. The lights brightened, but he wasn't sure allowing them to see him more clearly was all that wonderful; they seemed to have liked the song more than he did. A _lot_ more. Clearing his throat roughly, he snapped into the mic: "And up next: the Finnish Fungus tries for a fun finish! Don't touch that dial – though _any_ other soap might be a really good idea, guys. We'll be back with even worse music, if that's possible, right here on _Break a Leg!"_

Gina started, her head jerking up from her crossed arms on the light board. "Wha...is it time for the awards?" she croaked, guiltily realizing she'd been nodding off.

Luckily, it was the ape, not the lawyer, who crept into the light booth. He offered her another can of liquid caffeine and B-vitamins. "Eh, no...but looks like I t'ought right about you needin' dis."

"Thank you," Gina agreed, and gestured to the seat in front of the sound board, currently empty. Once they'd set a level for the main mic, Gina had focused her attention on the lights while Alan stayed backstage to cue the long parade of speakers...assuming he wasn't napping too. "So, uh, how's the buffet holding up?"

Sal shrugged, settling in. "Ah, da usual...everyone fills up their plate once..." He paused. "Once." When Gina was unsuccessful at repressing a smile, he grimaced. "Hey, _I_ didn't cook it!"

"Do you cook?"

"Oh you bet! Banana fritters, banana cream pie, banana burgers, peanut butter and banana sammiches, and scrambled eggs."

"Scrambled eggs?"

"Wit' bananas."  
"Sounds like a great menu," Gina said, and Sal beamed.

"Dat's what _I_ said! But Johnny, he...he says it ain't Italian enough." The ape sighed. "So, I just do da overseein' for da catering."

"Hey, didn't you guys bring those pumpkin cannolis to the party at the Bears'?"

"Yeah, dat was us." He shrugged. "Personally, I like my banana cannolis better...but was dey okay for youse guys?"

"Oh, those were fantastic! But why didn't you stay for the party?"

"Oh, uh...see, Johnny had his own party dat night, and I hadda serve da drinks, an' wash da dishes, an' vacuum da rugs after..." Gina nodded, trying to come up with something to say to that, but Sal wasn't done. "An' take out da trash, an' clean up da yard, an' tuck Johnny inta bed...and den clean da rug again when da pumpkin schnapps didn't agree wit' him..."

"You do a lot for him, don't you," Gina observed. "Are you guys best friends?"

"What, me an' Johnny?" Sal perked. "Oh, absolutely! Da bestest!"

"So you don't mind cleaning up after all this? I hope you get time to relax afterwards..."

"Oh, sure, sure," Sal agreed. "Right after I iron Johnny's shirts, an' bake da banana bread for his French toast in da morning, an' make sure da recyclables is out at da curb, an' –"

"Geez," Gina interrupted. "You do all that _after_ working here? While _he's_ out partying with the trust-fund girls?" Sal shrugged, nodded. Gina shook her head. "I sure as heck hope he appreciates all that!"

"Well...whadda _you_ doin' after dis? Ain't you got a lot ta do too?"

"Me? I'm..." Gina sighed. "I'm going hunting through the tunnels under the city for a secret monster base because my significant Muppet thinks only he can stop an imminent invasion from below, and I'm not about to let him try it on his own."

Sal leaned forward and gripped her arm a moment. "Ex- _actly."_

She felt a smile creeping up. "Uh huh. Okay."

"Dere's no way dey can do what dey do widdout peoples like _us,"_ Sal proclaimed, taking a long swig of another energy drink.

Gina sipped hers as well, regarding the ape with a little more respect. "To peoples like us, then," she offered, and held out her can.

Sal grinned, clunking his drink against hers. "To – uh, I t'ink you gotta t'ing comin' up here..." Gina looked where the ape was nodding, out the booth window at the center platform, and checked her program schedule. All it said was "second musical number;" the first one had been a Whatnot in a dull suit with light blue felt, graying hair and mustache, and large glasses singing the city's hate-crime statutes to the tune of "Born This Way" to open the event. The same gent was climbing onto the stage while Bland tried to lead the mostly-sleeping audience in a round of applause.

"Once again, dear friends, I give you the incomparable...Clive Cawinga!" Bland said, and turned the mic over to the beaming civil servant. Gina shook her head, and brought up the special aimed at the singer.

"Uh, huh huh, hello again," Cawinga addressed the tables where numerous other felted patrons lay in a stupor. "Isn't this just great? I gotta say, I am _so_ honored that my friends Bland and Blander asked me back this year to perform for all of you again! So, let's continue shaking it up here; let's make it a little funky, shall we?" He squinted in the direction of the booth, and Gina hurriedly cued up the second cassette of music. She was startled to hear the familiar piano opening to "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" come raggedly out of the large overhead speakers, and then dismayed when Cawinga began singing to it: "Supreme Court of the State of New Yoooork, Muppet rights versus the state school system; final ruling seven to one, in favor of including Muppet history in the general curriculuuum..."

"Oh...god," Gina sighed.

Sal patted her on the back. "Lemme know when ya need anudder fix, okay? I'll just go see how da gel fuel is holdin' up..."

"Thanks, Sal."

"Anytime."


	49. Chapter 42-2

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO (part two). _In which Gonzo goes down, down, down, in burning rings of fire; Gina is surprised; and there are two disturbing phone calls._

Gonzo scoffed as stagefrackles placed level after level of stacked jack-o'lanterns in a pyramid onstage. "Hah! What pandering! No sense of subtlety at all, Rosie," he muttered, watching the fungus slither into the spotlight and wave at the audience. Both Gonzo and Rosie gaped a moment as the fungus hefted his blowtorch and with a couple of sweeping gestures set the whole pile of pumpkins alight; the opening strains of "Night on Bald Mountain" whined over the loudspeakers. Throwing aside the torch (and singeing a camerafrackle, who screamed and abandoned his post), Mumfrey leaped onto the lowest level of the lit jack-o'lanterns...and the music suddenly surged into a disco beat.

Gonzo shook his head. "Dangit! He _stole_ my flame idea! Now it'll look like I'm copying _him!_ Nuts!" He cocked his head, listening. "And 'Night on Disco Mountain'? Really? Who does he think he is, Travolta? Nobody respects the _classics_ anymore, Rosie!"

McGurk gulped out a vague agreement, watching spellbound. Mumfrey danced – at least, those wild gyrations and flowing twists _might_ have been some sort of dance – along the bottom row of pumpkins, then jumped up to the next level. Flames licked rapidly at all of the vegetables and at the fungus; Rosie realized the bizarre daredevil was being burned at almost every step, but moving so fast, psuedopods flowing and shifting over one another so rapidly, that the wounds were extinguishing immediately. Well...almost immediately. As Mungus hopped onto the third level, and some of the pumpkins on the bottom slumped inward, melting in the intense heat, Gonzo remarked, "Hey Rosie...does he look like he's getting _smaller_ to you?"

"Yazza," Rosie said. Both of them squinted to see the blob of gyrating fungus clearly against the growing light of the pyre. A pumpkin collapsed right as Mumfrey landed atop it, making him sway and glop over to the next one before it could take him down with it. A small square platform lowered from the trusses overhead, stopping just shy of the topmost jack-o'lantern. Mumfrey leaped to the third level, sliding itself along with strange hop-skids, its malleable appendages slapping and glopping over itself faster to keep up with the many tiny blazes which kept breaking out over its surface. Nearly falling again, it missed a beat in the song, and a few boos came from the crowd. Mumfrey scrambled onto the fourth level, which only had three pumpkins on the verge of utter liquefaction.

Gonzo shook his head. "The pile's sinking! He'll never make it! Rosie, behold: the result when too much ego meets too little talent!"

Another small fire burst out on the fungus, but it couldn't focus on that and keep its balance on the melting, flaming pumpkin at the same time; it leaped desperately for the platform from the top pumpkin, which crashed underpsuedofoot and tumbled to the stage, scattering flaming orange bits. As the music reached a disco crescendo, tiny fireworks shot up all around the edge of the hanging platform. When they fizzled out after a few seconds, the platform was empty.

"Get a closeup!" Pew snarled, waving his cane so wildly he knocked unconscious his coffee assistant and assistant director. He stepped atop the prone body of the A.D., yelling, "Camera deux! Camera deux! Ah need a close-up _now!"_

Gonzo, Rosie, Snookie, and the judges all turned to stare up at the big screen behind the stage...where, in extreme closeup, a tiny bit of fungus waved. Mumfrey had reached the platform, technically...what was left of him...

Murmurs and uncertain applause smattered in the audience. Snookie snapped his fingers, getting the camerafrackle who was supposed to be focusing on him to actually do so instead of gawping at the bigscreen. "Well! We'll have to see what the judges thought of that red-hot performance; did the Finnish fungus _shrink_ in their esteem, or has his give-it-all dedication _melted_ their resistance? Find out in a minute after you've suffered through these gratuitously disgusting ads sponsoring... _Break a Leg!"_

 _"That_ took him down a few notches! Ah ha ha ha ha!" Gonzo chortled, then nudged Rosie. "Okay, hurry, hurry! Get the hoops onstage! Hey guys, where's the extra tank of kerosene I ordered? I need that standing by just in case this isn't flamey enough!"

The wind whistled around the walls of the theatre. Camilla pulled her comfy quilt tighter around her, and fluffed her feathers again to keep warm. When word had come down that the Muppet Theatre would put on no show tonight, due to the extreme weather which would keep a lot of patrons away, the chicken had reflected that at least she'd be able to watch the stunt show without enduring the haughty looks of some of the other chickens, or having to turn the volume all the way up to hear it over the green-room racket. However, that also meant that except for the fowl who always roosted here, and a few of the rats, the place was deserted and cold...and she really didn't like the sound of that wind. The basement green room's temperature had dropped fast this afternoon, and now she shivered, hearing the wicked cold whistling like a demonic teapot through all of the cracks in the walls upstairs. Camilla was willing to bet even that ghost would come down here to get out of a chill that fierce.

She glanced toward the empty canteen, contemplating a pot of tea; normally she asked Beaker, and he was always helpful, but tonight the lab boys had gone out (despite frequent meeping protests from the carrot-haired assistant) to finish some sort of job they'd been working on, something about the charity walk. Camilla wasn't keen on the idea of chilling her toes walking over to the stove, and so glumly stayed put in her makeshift nest of old blankets on a couch. Feeling something uncomfortable, she shifted back a little, and squawked in surprise when Rizzo popped out of the nest.

"Whew! Geez, guy tries ta take a nap and suddenly he's got _poultry_ sittin' on 'im!" the rat complained.

"Bugawk bawk bawk _bawk!"_ Camilla snapped. Rizzo glared right back.

"Well how's I ta know it was _your_ nest? I didn't see a sign on it or nothin'!" Rizzo scooted over, though he kept a length of blanket to wrap up in. "Brrr...sure is cold tonight. You'd t'ink it was January areddy. Hey, so what're we watching?"

"Bawk buh bugawk."

"What?" Rizzo brightened, staring at the fuzzy old TV. "Aw hey! Ain't dat Gonzo's show? Is he still in da running?"

"Bawwwwk," Camilla assured him, annoyed.

"Huh. I figured he'd be mortally maimed _weeks_ ago," Rizzo mused. _"Oww!_ Hey! What was _dat_ for?" At the angry clucking which followed, the rat grumpily climbed out of the blanket nest, dragging a small rag with him. "All right, all _right_ already, I'm goin'! Hmf...it's not like da weirdo ever bodders ta call _me_ anymore...funny how fame goes right ta some people's heads!" He stomped over to the kitchen. "Hey Murray, wanna help me break da 'fridge open or what?"

Camilla returned her attention to the set, worried, wringing her wingtips through the judges' critique of the shrinking fungus and some sort of grotesque trombone number from a monster in black robes and the worst hairpiece the chicken had ever seen. Her beloved Whatever was up next. She hoped, deeply hoped, that having seen the fungus crash and burn...more or less...that Gonzo wouldn't feel as driven to perform something even more deadly, more dangerous, more eyeball-wreckingly horrific than ever before. Didn't he know he had her heart, and always would?

Praying that Gonzo would remember that in order to have an egg with her, he first had to come back to her _alive,_ Camilla huddled in a tense ball of feathers, and waited, and watched, so afraid she didn't even realize she was breathing through an open beak...until she heard Rizzo snickering about it.

The rat was completely unprepared for the thrown hot water bottle.

Gonzo waited, shaking his hands rapidly to stay loose, as the host introduced him for his final stunt on this show. He glanced around; the stagefrackles all seemed to be in place, each standing ready with their straw hoops on the darkened stage. A single center spotlight came up, the haunting woodwind intro to "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" echoed through the studio, and Gonzo took a deep breath, yanked the dunce cap lower over his brow, and strode into his destiny.

Rosie watched anxiously from the left side of the platform, manning the tank of kerosene, fumbling to make sure the extra matches were in his pocket. He really, really hoped this went off without a hitch...and not just for the pepperoni rats in the betting pot. Maybe, just maybe, if Gonzo impressed the boss enough, the silly little Whatever might be set free, like a victorious gladiator of old...

Gonzo produced a large book from the folds of his voluminous robe, and a wand in the other hand, and in tune with the music, began swirling the wand at the various Frackles around him. One by one, as if awakened by magic, they stirred, stretched their hoops upward, and surreptitiously lit the straw, so that small bursts of light came into being all over the dark stage, drawing a few ooohs from the crowd. Gonzo began dancing lightly among them, directing them with little swoops of his wand. As the music picked up and smoothed into a regular beat, the Frackles began dancing too, slowly at first, swinging the fiery circles up, around, down, and up again, and then turning themselves around, then gradually falling into an erratic orbit around Gonzo, the hoops apparently dancing by themselves on the dark stage as Sorcerer Gonzo set them twirling circles-in-a-circle. All at once, with the descending notes of the first crescendo, the hoops dipped and swung before resuming their patterns, each of them moving at a slightly different tempo so the effect was staggered all around.

Now Gonzo tossed the spellbook away and started dancing with the "floating" hoops, ducking under them, weaving between them, and as the music grew louder and faster, he dove into the larger hoops, somersaulting on the stage floor and bounding up again to dance some more. All along he kept waving the wand, and trying to adjust his hat: the elastic strap holding the cone atop his head kept slipping. Gonzo laughed, swirling around and around, keeping time as the song played faster and faster still. At about the point he figured the audience wanted more, he cried out, "Together! Together, my little rings of fire!" and waved his wand in a tight circle.

The Frackles, on cue, began shuffling closer together as they continued to whirl. "Uhg this is making me dizzy..." one groaned.

"Hey, that's my foot!" another yelped.

"Circles! Circles!" Gonzo hissed, reminding them they were being paid to dance, not talk. He kept up a manic grin, hoping the camera was catching him in close-up from time to time. _"Arrriba!"_ he yelled, diving through a hoop, dodging two flaming circles swooping right at him, and dancing sideways between two more before leaping up onto the shoulders of two of the Frackles. The stagehands drew closer together, many of them out of step and offbeat as they frantically tried to keep swirling their hoops.

"Owch!" one of them cried, the flames licking down to his hands.

"Oof –hey watch it!" another snapped as an off-balance monster careered into him, making him drop his hoop. Another stepped on the flaming hoop, and did some impromptu dance steps. Gonzo hopped from shoulder to shoulder, jerking crazily to avoid the cluster of flames as the hoops were dragged closer and closer in, the stagefrackles compacting into a smaller and smaller space. Collisions broke out all over.

"Keep circling! Keep swooping!" Gonzo yelled; the music reached the cymbal crashes and frantic brass blares, and he tried to dive and roll through flaming hoops held above the heads of the jostling Frackles. In just a few seconds, he would leap into the air and do a triple flip while waving his wand in a large circle to scatter the Frackles and bring the whole thing to a crashing finale...he listened hard to the music over the now-frequent yelps and growls of the stagehands. _Leap in three...two..._

 _"Aaaggghh I'm on fire!"_ howled a Frackle, throwing his hoop in the air and slapping at the flames on his feathery head. His discarded hoop landed on the shoulder of another, who jumped and screeched and bumped the two Frackles holding Gonzo aloft on their heads at the exact moment he tried to leap up for the dramatic climax. They shouldered apart, more hoops came down, and B D shouted a warning as sparks hit the judges' table and began licking at the banner decorating its front.

"Whooooaa!" Gonzo yelled, pinwheeling all limbs, landing unsteadily on a flaming hoop. "Whoa-ohh- _owwww!"_

Rosie ran onstage, tripping over the kerosene canister and knocking it aside. He shouted at Gonzo, "Gazza! Kessha!" and spread his arms wide, beckoning – an instant before another staggering Frackle smacked into him, catching his scarlet fur coat afire. Rosie patted it out hurriedly, leaving bare patches scattered over his torso.

Snookie backed away, wishing like hell this place actually had a fire extinguisher handy. B D was trying to put out the fire on the table with a flapping, screaming Shakey; Behemoth yelled and tried to pull back the animated part of his costume which was still attached to his tongue with Grusomeglue; fire-headed Frackles screamed and flailed around blindly onstage. The stage manager in black robes advanced, staring at Gonzo. Snookie looked into the audience, but the house lights were still off, and he couldn't make out individual figures in the dark, seething mass of cheering monsters. If Carl let anything happen to her...

Gonzo, crazily tripping on tiptoes from one swaying, swerving Frackle to another, stamping his feet to put out his own flames, looked around for some means of escape, and saw a large blue pipe crossing the ceiling just above the lighting trusses. "Rosie! Dogpile!" he yelled.

The frightened McGurk looked at him, looked up where Gonzo pointed, and understood. _"Raaaaaaahhhhh!"_ he screamed, charging straight at the two Frackles wobbling under the Whatever's smoking feet. They swung around to stare at him, terrified, and he grabbed one in each arm and slammed them into each other, leaped onto their shoulders, and hurled Gonzo upward with all his monstery strength.

Gonzo tumbled up, his hat slipping over his eyes, his cape tangling his legs, but somehow managed to hook an arm around the water pipe. He yanked on it, unable to see anything, the wizard's hat over his face and flapping cape making him look like some crazed blind moth trapped on the pipe. "Ungh! Agh! It won't budge!" he shouted.

Rosie gathered his muscles, and with a grunt leapt straight up...and his claws just barely caught Gonzo's toes. "Aaaagh!" The two of them swung dangerously; Gonzo almost slipped from the pipe, but then his cape caught on a rusted flange.

"Get him down from thair!" Pew ordered, slapping Behemoth by mistake. The monster stumbled, sending Shakey flying; the tension B D had been pulling against on the tiny monster suddenly snapped in his face, and he fell sideways, feet dancing clumsily to try and regain balance, and smashed into Pew. The director, cursing at the top of his considerable lungs, careened across the stage flat into the slowly seeping kerosene tank. With a howl of outrage, he stomped on it; the soaked floorboard right underneath it creaked and snapped, sending the tank beneath the platform; the other end of the board snapped up with a sickening _sproing-oing-oing,_ and sent a hapless host flying.

"Waaauuugh!" Snookie shrieked, arms flailing, shocked at being suddenly airborne. Something brushed by his arm, and he grabbed it, swinging around like a drunk pendulum on what turned out to be Rosie's left leg. "Ungh," Snookie groaned, clinging tight. Rosie yelped in pain, Gonzo cried out in surprise at the sudden extra weight, which pulled his cape tighter around his neck as he hung by it, hands knocked loose; the music reached the smashing climax where the real sorcerer was ending the wreckage caused by his apprentice; a low rumble and a very loud _pop_ came from beneath the stage as the kerosene met one of the dropped flaming hoops.

"Uh oh," Gonzo and Snookie gulped at the same moment.

"What ze _hail_ ees going on heeere!" Pew screamed.

The entire stage blew up. Boards spattered the audience. Snookie kicked his legs, trying to swing out of the way, and that was just enough force to finish crumbling the rusted bolts holding the water line to the ceiling. It juttered and fell; Gonzo, Rosie, and Snookie swung, shrieking, to crash into a side wall; and thousands of gallons of water feeding into the giant tank next door for _You Win a Fish!_ instead poured down on the studio center stage.

Flames guttered and died, as did the big screen. Emergency glowworms lit up, showing the stunned audience the extent of the damage: stage a wreck, charred, soaked Frackles blinking like poleaxed cartoon characters, a cursing director repeatedly kicking the remains of the judges' table, the judges themselves staring with jaws all agape. Gonzo weakly stood up from the pile of Muppet and monster on a tiny section of intact stage, shoved up the dunce cap so he could see where the audience was, and held up both arms as if signaling a touchdown. "Tah _daaaaaah!"_

The final, upbeat whistle and violin zing ended the music.

After a few seconds of utter silence, one of the monsters began to clap. Slowly, he was joined by a few others, then more, and finally the whole house was whooping, stomping, clapping, and howling their approval.

Then the bleachers collapsed.

When Camilla recovered from her swoon, that damned rat had stolen all her blankets.

Gina sighed, throwing the oversized switch that killed all the remaining lights save for the single, faint ghostlight on the wall just off stage left. In the gloom, she looked around once more. The caterers were long gone; she hoped by now Sal had crawled into bed, free at last of all obligations...until the morning, anyway. Alan shrugged into a heavy coat he'd borrowed from the wardrobe room, a parka they'd used in a production of "K2". "Ha, this is nice! Sure you don't want me to snag one for you, G?"

"G?" Gina repeated. "Do I look like a rapper to you?"

Alan giggled. "You look like a really ticked-off elfin princess."

She snorted. "Elfin princesses won't pick you up by your scrawny neck and fling you into the critic's seat in the fifth row."

He laughed, but Gina wasn't amused. "Come on, let's go. I just need to check the front-of-house locks and set the alarm in the lobby."

"You're not gonna walk home in just that?" Alan asked, indicating the jacket Gina had pulled on over her black outfit.

"Heck no, I'm calling a cab," she replied. "Go on, get out of here."

"Want me to wait for you?" he offered, though he was clearly eager to get home. Although the snow had turned to rain, it was still bonechilling out there, with a possible freeze predicted on the radio; they'd listened grimly to the weather report while sweeping the stage.

Gina hesitated. Normally she had no problem hanging around here by herself; this theatre had no rumors of ghosts, despite the age of the building. All night, however, as they toiled to return the space to its previous configuration so rehearsals could resume tomorrow, Gina had felt uneasy. Several times she'd glanced up, thinking she saw some little flicker of movement in her peripheral vision, only to find a masking curtain swaying lightly in the blown air from the heaters, or a paper napkin fluttering on the floor. Still...the doors had been locked for a couple of hours now, all of the MADL folks had staggered out to be woken up fully by the cold air an hour before that, and she was positive only she and Alan remained. "Nah...you go ahead," she told the younger techie. "Remember, we finish painting the flats Monday!"

"Yeah, yeah, cool – long as we can get out in time for the night," he said, grinning.

Gina gave him a wry smile. "Oh yeah? You trick-or-treating with your big brother again this year? Going as Underdog or one of the Transformers this time?"

"Ha ha," he grumbled. "No, I have a party to go to, which will have candy of a more adult nature!"

"Good for you. Tell Candy you don't have anything bigger than a twenty," Gina advised, and grinned at Alan's blush. "Go on, shoo! I'll finish locking up and wait for my cab inside. See ya."

"See ya!" Not needing any more encouragement – or teasing – Alan hurried out the back door; Gina heard it click locked behind him. Wearily, she looked around once more.

 _Great. That took long enough. When I get hold of Mike I am telling him to whip those lazy dogs who didn't show up, or else I'll do it for him!_ Shaking her head at the thought that many hours of activity still lay ahead, she pulled out her phone and started to hit the house number, then reconsidered. _Nearly midnight...he has to be asleep by now. He's always out by eleven...maybe better not to wake him up, just show up, and put him to bed, and worry about this whole tunnel thing tomorrow?_ She liked that plan _much_ better. She walked to the green room carefully, feeling her way past the platforms and curtains more than seeing them, until she reached the lamplight of the lounge area. Sinking into a chair, she pulled the phone book into her lap and flipped to the cab listings. She was too tired to hear the soft skitter of claws on the painted floor of the stage area.

Burt scrambled back to the trapdoor. "Now! Now! She's callin' someone!" he gasped. Slurg thumped the shoulder of a giant cockroach with a headset on, crouched next to a large box of wires and antennae.

"Show time," Slurg growled. The roach nodded once, and tuned his receiver to the outgoing call signal, hacking it and redirecting it. He nodded again at Slurg, who took a deep breath and clicked a button on his own headset. "Uh...yeah," he grunted, trying to sound less snarly.

Gina paused. _Wow, that's some great customer service attitude,_ she thought. "Is this the Brown Checkered Cab company?"

"Uh...yeah!" Slurg said. "What can we do ya for?"

"I need a pickup, at the Sosilly Theatre, soon as you can get here," Gina said. "Rear entrance, just off the alley, on Fifty-third –"

"Yeah, sure, I think I got a driver right over there now," Slurg said, grinning. Burt snickered, and Andy shushed him. "Back entrance, got it."

"Great, thanks," Gina said, and hung up. _Eh, at least it sounds like the driver'll be here quick. I hope these guys really are cheaper than Yellow._ Stretching sore shoulders as she rose, she slung her purse over one arm and made her way up front to arm the lobby alarm system. A bit of whiteness onstage caught her attention; walking over, she discovered she'd somehow missed one of the paper napkins left all over the floor by the monkeys. It had snagged in the edge of the trapdoor. Gina tugged it free, frowning. _Huh...I'd almost forgot this thing was even here, we haven't used the trap in forever...hey, maybe John would like to use it for that quick scene change in act three?_ Considering the possible usefulness of the old understage entrance, she walked through the hall to the lobby, tossing the napkin in a trashcan as she went.

"Out!" Slurg hissed, shoving the roach. "Go! Go!"

Irritated, the bug shot him a glare as it slowly packed up its equipment. "Don't rush me, sweetcheeks, dis is expensive stuff heah."

"The alley! Move it! Move it!" Andy puffed, hustling through the old vent system beneath the stage, the wolf-thing crawling ahead of him and Slurg bringing up the rear, while the roach finally scuttled off through the basement towards the sewer drain.

When she came back across the stage floor, Gina noticed another bit of white out-of-place, and stopped, feeling a bit surreal: hadn't she just cleaned that up? Slowly she approached the dimly-gleaming piece of paper, checking the shadows all around: in the house seats, on the main platform, and among the blackness of the hidden, curtained wings, nothing moved. Another shred of napkin fluttered in the crack of the trap. As she cautiously stepped closer, Gina suddenly realized the air vents were off. A spike of fear shot through her. She stared at the trap door. When was the last time that thing had even been opened? Shouldn't the edges be full of paint, and sealed closed?

No weapons handy; thinking fast, she pulled her keys from her purse, wrapping her fist over them so that the sharp prongs of them stuck out between her fingers. She crept right to the edge of the trap, crouched, and wriggled the fingers of her free hand into the crack. It definitely was _not_ sealed shut. She held her breath, counted to three silently, and flung open the door, thrusting her fist down with a sharp cry.

Nothing at all was visible below. A whoosh of air rushed out, startling her, but then nothing but blackness filled the hole beneath the stage. Gina remembered her mini flashlight, and dug it from her pocket, shining it quickly down and around. A narrow passageway leading to the utility room, some electrical conduits, and the remnants of some stage tape on the floor below were all she could see. Nervously she peered further in, checking in all directions with the light. Nothing seemed out of place.

Uncertainly, she shut the trap again, stepping firmly on it. _Okay...maybe...maybe Mike needed to get to the floor circuit breakers when I wasn't here the other day? And that little crack is blowing up a little cold air...maybe that was just enough to catch the napkin in it? Maybe it fell through earlier, and the breeze down there blew it up, where it stuck?_ Plausible though that sounded, she could no longer shake a feeling of being watched. _Okay, enough! Go home! All this monster stuff is starting to get to you...you need sleep...make him sleep too, and deal with the rest of it tomorrow._ Yes, that was a good idea. A very good idea. Backing away from the somehow threatening trapdoor, she felt something touch her back and jumped, whirling. The masking leg curtain piled up on the stage floor at its bottom edge; another step and she'd have tangled herself in it. Angry with herself, Gina turned on her heel and strode through the green room to the back door. The cab should be here any minute, although she hadn't heard a horn yet; she just wanted to be out of the building, right now. She punched in the code for the alarm on the back door, yanked it open and hurried out, slamming it firmly behind her and hearing the system beep. All secure. If anything _was_ in there, it wouldn't get out now without setting off the alarms.

She headed for the street a few feet away. Suddenly a small mummylike thing stepped in front of her. "Goin' somewhere, sister?" it chuckled.

Gina reacted faster than the goblin had anticipated. One good kick sent it flying into the side of the alley dumpster. "Now!" Slurg yelled. Gina turned, startled, and the other two monsters leapt at her.

Rhonda rubbed her eyes, and stared dully at the TV. Onscreen, what appeared to be a black-and-white but all-monster version of "I Love Lucy" romped in a poison factory. The rat grimaced. "Geez. This channel is just plain _weird."_

No response came. She looked up at the other end of the long leather sofa. A pointed yellow nose stuck up from a cocoon of plush blankies. As she glared at Newsie, he snorked, sniffled, and resettled his body before resuming a light snoring. "You are such a wuss," she grumbled, checking the clock. "It's only just midnight!" Frumping, shoving her bangs back, quite unhappily aware that she must look like a mess...maybe even a _mouse..._ Rhonda decided one more cup of hot cider, and then she was calling it quits. "No point in waiting up if Gina's this danged late," she muttered. "I _knew_ I shoulda brought my overnight bag, I just _knew_ this was gonna be another ridiculous night..."

Trotting to the kitchen, she heard her ringtone. "Who the heck is that? I already told Rizzo I wasn't going for drinks with him, _ever,_ no matter _how_ many nightclubs he's found without pest control," she complained aloud. Fishing her cell from her purse by the sofa, she was startled by the caller ID. "Ma? What's wrong?"

"Rhonda!" the matronly rat on the other end squeaked, then composed her voice only a little, still sounding strained. "Do you know how to reach that cute long-nosed _boychik_ of yours? The reporter hottie?"

"Wha...I..." Rhonda blinked at the sleeping, wrapped-up-like-a-burrito Muppet on the sofa. "Uh...yeah...I'm actually at his place right now...why?"

"Oh, well _that's_ awkward," Ma Bell said.

"Ma! I am _not_ sleeping with him! He _has_ a girlfriend!" Rhonda snapped. "Besides, he looks like a pineapple met up with a can opener...yeeesh."

"I _know_ he has a girlfriend! I've been trying to call him all night!"

"Ma, do you know how late it is? As in make-some-sense-already-thirty or I am hanging up?"

"Something's happened," the elder rat gushed all at once, "Rodney brought me the trace about half an hour ago, and it looked strange so I checked it out myself, and you have to tell your reporter friend that his girlfriend is in trouble _right now!"_

"What?" Rhonda's whiskers pinged. "Gina? Wha...how do you know? What trace?" Suddenly she scowled at her phone. "Ma, were you _tracking_ his girlfriend?"

"Mm, well, you never know when someone might become available," Ma Bell deflected. "Rhonda, sweetie, I don't know why I can't reach him, but put him on. _Right_ now!"

Rhonda's gaze flicked to the coffee table; Newsie's phone was there, but even from here she could see the blinking red light signaling a dead battery. "'Cause Data here never charges his danged phone," she growled. "Hang on."

Newsie started awake at the rough shove. "Aagh! Choir practice!" Before he could regain his wits, a blonde rat was shoving something silver in his face. "Huh? Rhonda?"

"It's my ma. She says something's wrong with Gina," Rhonda said quickly. When he gaped at her, she smacked his nose with a paw. "Answer it, you twit!"

"H-hello?"

"Hi, gorgeous. Listen, no time for pleasantries: your girlfriend called a cab a half hour ago, but she didn't reach a cab company. Someone hijacked the call."

"Wha...uh..." Newsie tried to process this, still waking up. "Wait. Gina? What?"

"Ah, just how I like 'em, cute and dumb," Ma Bell sighed. She then yelled so loud that Newsie cringed: "Your girlfriend called a cab from her theatre, but the call didn't go to the number she thought it did! Someone else picked it up! Listen, we recorded it, here..." After a moment of noise and a click, tinny voices played over the line. Newsie heard Gina asking if she'd reached the Brown Checkered Cab Company...and then a rough voice, too gravelly and creepy to possibly belong to a person, replied. Stunned, Newsie listened closely to the conversation...and when it ended, and he was about to ask Ma Bell if she could track the call's origin, or Gina's phone, the rat came back on and added, "Okay – now listen to what we caught in the background. We had to amp it up a few decibels, but this is bad, sweetie. This is very bad." He strained his ears, heart thumping, and heard the faint sound of something giggling...and something else shushing.

"Oh frog," Newsie gulped. "Mrs...Mrs Bell, can you tell me where –"

"But that ain't the worst of it," the rat continued, "I'm so sorry, sweetnose, but...that call...that call came from _inside the theatre!"_

Newsie choked, feeling a lurch in his stomach. Seeing the glazed look in his eyes, Rhonda snatched her phone back. "Ma? What the Swiss cheese holey hey is goin' on?"

As Ma Bell repeated what she'd been able to discover, Newsie tried to call Gina on his phone. "It's dead!" he yelped, starting to panic.

"Plug it in!" Rhonda yelled at him. "Ma, can you track her number? Tell us where she is?"

"The signal keeps going in and out, but best we can tell, she's down the south side, Chinatown or the Bowery maybe."

Newsie found the charger after dumping out a drawer in the nightstand, and raced back to the living room to shove it into a socket. As soon as he plugged the phone in, it rang. "It's her!" he cried. "Oh thank frog...it's her..." He answered immediately, nearly dropping the phone. "Hello! Gina!"

The voice on the other end was low, cold, and definitely not his beloved's. "Why _hello_ there. Nice of you to finally answer your phone; I was beginning to think I'd have to send a postcard."

 _"You!"_ Newsie gasped.

"Oh yes. Me. Your biggest fan, my little Muppet Newsfreak." That chilling voice sounded even more frightening with the hint of amusement behind it.

Newsie struggled to regain his own voice, all his nerves trembling so hard his foam felt on the verge of collapse. "You – you hurt my Gina and I'll –"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," the voice said, turning hard as flint. "If you call the police, if you go underground, if you so much as alert your sorry television station, first we will kill _her,_ and then we will come for you. Do you comprehend, little Muppet?"

"You...no...no, you _can't!"_ Newsie cried. Rhonda told her mother to shut up, and put down her phone, staring in growing fear at Newsie. _"You leave her alone!"_ he shouted, rage and terror pushing his voice into its roughest range.

The voice chuckled. "I will find you!" Newsie yelled. "I will find you, and if you've touched her at all, I will _hurt_ you, you frogging *******! You let her go _this minute_ or I will _hurt you!"_

The laughter rose, loud enough Rhonda could hear it. She paled, shivering. Newsie clutched his phone so tightly his felt had turned white. "Let her go, you monster – you—"

"You talk, she dies," the voice said, all humor vanished. "Oh, and...pull that foolish video. If it's not down in five minutes, I'll kill her anyway."

The phone went dead.


	50. Chapter 43

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE. _In which Team News infiltrates the hotel and splits up, because that's always a good idea. Also, Gina wakes up in a nasty mood._

"Okay, it's down," Rhonda said, turning from Newsie's Powerbook to discover the golden-felted reporter was suddenly glossy black all over. She blinked, and realized he was wearing his raven costume from the Halloween party. "What the hey are you _doing?"_

He glanced at her before tugging the beaked mask over his face. "They know what I look like, Rhonda; I'm in that video report."

"What makes you think they won't see right through that stupid costume?"

"Help me tape up the seams," he urged her, holding out a roll of black gaffing tape he'd taken from Gina's toolbox. He adjusted his glasses over the beak. "Hurry! Do I – do I look monstery enough?"

"You look froggin' ridiculous!"

"It'll have to do," he muttered, and before Rhonda was done with the tape, he strained to pick up the toaster-sized-but-far-heavier signal finder. "How does this work?"

She showed him, nimble paws flicking on the controls and manually tuning it until they heard the soundtrack for the "I Love Gruesy" show still playing on MMN. Rhonda yelped, clapping her paws over her ears. Newsie ran to the bathroom and brought back the glass jar of cotton balls from the counter, desperately prying the moaning rat's fingers from her ears to stuff the cotton in instead. "Are you okay?" he asked; Rhonda turned wide, frightened eyes to him, but then nodded.

"Guess I haven't had enough of those anti-monsterphobia things yet," she whispered, still shivering. Newsie hefted the signal-finder box again, heading for the door.

"Come on! Grab the gear!" He ran into the hallway, stopped at the elevator, and only then realized no one was behind him. Hastening back to the open apartment door, he found the rat glaring at him, surrounded by bulging knapsacks. "Rhonda, come on! That creep's got my Gina!"

"And I weigh less than any of these danged bags, you idiot!" Rhonda snapped. She waved a flashlight. "Here! _This_ is what I can carry!"

"Oh," Newsie muttered, then took one of the knapsacks with a coil of nylon rope tied to the back, and shrugged awkwardly into the straps. "Oof...okay...come on!"

"You gotta plan, or are we just running headlong into disaster?" the rat asked as they waited impatiently in the descending elevator.

"We save Gina," Newsie growled.

"That's it? That's your big plan?" She shook her head. "Newsie, we don't even have any weapons! How're we gonna get past an army of drooling, nasty monsters?"

"Er...there is sort of a weapon..."

"Yeah? I'm all ears! Flamethrower? Grenade launcher? Bunny cannon?"

"Uhm...a mousetrap."

 _"What_ was that you just mumbled? I couldn't hear it over the sound of you turning red!" She scowled at him. "A _what_ trap? Are you out of your froggin' _mind?!"_

"Look, it's an old one – Gina had it from before – from before she met you, okay?" Embarrassed, he wouldn't meet her glare. "You never know. Maybe we can use it as a distraction somehow."

 _"How?_ By entertaining the creeps with me flopping around in it?"

"I don't think that kind of humor is appropriate right now!" Newsie snapped.

"If _ever_ there was a time for gallows humor, it's _now,_ when I am about to be eaten alive by frog only knows what kind of hideous giant bug-thing _this_ time!" she shouted back. Catching her breath, she saw the Muppet smack his fist against the wall of the elevator, and relented. "Newsie...I'm sorry...this is just...this is just _way_ more than I bargained for tonight, okay? And I'm...I'm scared as heck, and you know we might all die trying this kind of stunt," she said softly, gulping back her fear.

Newsie struggled to say anything for a moment. The chime dinged, the door opened on the building's ground floor, and before he stepped out, Newsie took a deep breath and with great effort lifted the signal-finder. "I know," he muttered. "But I have to find her, Rhonda. I have to."

Rhonda sighed, and gently patted his feathered arm. "Yeah, Goldie...we do."

Together, they walked outside into the freezing street, the cold lights casting weird shadows over the unfamiliar shapes under the eaves of every building, where the rain hadn't reached the piles of snow. Newsie strained, grunting, and after a few steps, Rhonda wriggled underneath the electronic box and helped carry it as best she could.

Gina awoke with a vicious headache and elbows which felt burned and raw. She groaned, and something moved in front of her. With blurry vision but responsive reflexes, she swung a fist, and it connected with something yielding that went _oof!_ Struggling to sit up and clear her eyes, she saw retreating movement, and then a low, chilling _clank_ came from a few feet away. She blinked rapidly and finally discerned the hard dirt floor, the cold concrete slab she slumped upon, and when she raised her pounding head, saw iron bars...and two bizarre creatures peering in at her from the other side.

One of these, a reptilian thing with floppy ears and a canine snout, hissed softly, "You were not ssssuposssed to harm her, you imbesssilesss!"

"Er," grunted an unraveling thing farther back from the door to the cell.

"Uh," said a wolfish thing with blue fur crouching beside it.

"Well, quite the little spitfire, hmmm?" cackled the second thing standing right in front of the bars; he looked vaguely humanoid, but with a very long, tall head and goofy Prince Charles-sized ears. He crossed his lab-coat-clad arms and smiled broadly. "Well, not to worry, not to worry, I'll patch her up nicely for you, Lester!"

"Eustace," the dog-faced thing snarled.

"Whatever," the tall-headed Muppet said airily. "Hello, honey! How're you feeling?"

Gina put a hand to her forehead. "What the h-...where am I?" The fact of _iron bars_ finally clicked, and she glared at them. "Open this door right now and let me out of here, you creeps!"

"Hm, no, no, I don't think that would be wise," the white-coated Muppet mused. "It took three monsters just to subdue you! No, sweetie, until my assistant gets here with the sedative, I think I'll just stand right here, thanks!" He turned to the smaller monsters, who seemed reluctant to speak. "So, what an _exciting_ story! The wild redhair captured on safari in the deepest heart of the dark city! How did you finally manage to take her down?"

"Oh," the wolfish thing said, perking his ears. "Well, first she kicked Andy into the dumpster –"

"Ungh," the goblin agreed, holding a hand to his stomach. Tattered strips of newspaper and sticky garbage covered him head to toe; slowly he began unpeeling them. He didn't want to look like a _complete_ fool in front of the boss, and who knew but that the underlord might want to commend them _personally_ for this strike-team triumph!

"It was a monstrous fight," growled a piranha-jawed thing, raising his long muzzle; the entire creature seemed to stand only a few inches above the floor on stumpy legs with long claws. "For a while, it seemed as though our valiant team would be outfought, despite our surprise attack and our formidable strength, but then –"

"Then she slipped in the slush and banged her head on the dumpster," the wolf-thing chimed in. Everyone turned to stare at him. Seeing the alligator-piranha thing glaring at him, the wolfish thing amended quickly, "Uh...I mean...and then Captain Slurg performed his Koozebanian jujitsu and knocked her out!"

Eustace hissed. "Incompetentsss!... Be that assss it may, at leassst sshe is now in our grasssp. His inutterable sssliminessss is pleasssed."

"Let me out this instant, or a sore stomach will be the _least_ of your pain," Gina snapped, struggling to stand. She lurched toward the bars, and all of the creatures fell back a few steps warily. "What do you freaks think you're doing?" She peered around; strange glowing worms crawled along the cave-like ceiling, and to her left and right she could see more cells as rough and dirty as this one. "Oh, god...I'm underground..." The severe chill of the place penetrated her dazed senses, and she shuddered, clinging tight to the bars. "You're the monsters! The ones under the city my Newsie is trying to stop!"

The creatures looked at one another, and began snickering. Eustace grinned. "Oh, exssssellent. Sssshe knowsss why ssshe isss here! Lisssten, you weird red-furred skin-thing, you will do assss you are told if you ever wisssh to sssee your pressshious reporter again!"

"What have you done to him?" Gina asked, tugging hard at the cell door, ignoring the splitting pain in her skull. A little dust shifted down from the ceiling, and Eustace glanced up worriedly a moment, but she couldn't budge the iron bars, rusty though they appeared. "If you so much as look at him -!"

"Oh, I certainly hope we'll see him soon," the tall-headed scientist person chirped brightly. "I'm hoping the dark odiferousness will let me play with him before tomorrow night! I've simply _always_ wanted to put some feathers on the beaky ones..."

Gina shook the bars again, but then a wave of sick dizziness washed through her, and she sagged. "You touch him, and I'll stuff your head up lizard-guy's –"

"That could be intriguing," the white-coated scientist mused. "Oh, but here's my good-for-nothing lackey! Honestly, Thatch, does it _really_ take that long to microwave the sandwich and grab a sedative from the cabinet?"

"Urrrr..." The three-eyed, purple-furred monster grimaced uncertainly, then cautiously handed over a stale loaf of French bread and a sagging plastic syringe.

The scientist threw his hands up. "Ack! Thatch! No, you were supposed to put the _sandwich_ in the nuker, and – what the hey kind of sandwich is this?"

"Beeza sammage," Thatch shrugged.

The tall Muppet stared at the unopened can of beans between the two crumbling bread pieces. With a snort he tossed it all over his shoulder, and shoved Thatch at the bars, floppy syringe still in hand. "Well, then _you_ can administer the sedative so we can get her ready for her big TV debut later! Go on!"

The monster's third eye blinked; the other two looked at the strike team monsters. All of them glanced at one another, and as one with the scientist, took a firm step backwards, leaving Thatch alone at the bars. "Uhhh...gizza seggadizza?" he offered, holding the syringe out to the doggish lizard.

Eustace shook his head, grinning. "You volunteered, fool! Remember, Van Neuter, our mosst ssscurrilousss underlord wissshesss her intact until we have her Muppet partner in chainsss! _Try_ to contain yourssself!" With a hiss, the monster swung on his clawed rear foot and stalked away.

"Don't I always?" Van Neuter sniffed. He gave Thatch another push. "Go on! Here...get right up close and just jab that in anywhere...come on, we don't have all night!"

The purple-furred monster looked slowly up at Gina. Her eyes narrowed, she took a deep breath, and tensed in readiness. _If they're using me as bait, then Newsie's still out there,_ she realized, relieved. _Sweetie, be careful, and don't rush down here! I'll get out fine on my own._ She glared at the monster, all three of his eyes now focused on hers; she saw his topfeathers shaking.

"For crying out loud, you lazy coward, get over there!" Van Neuter yelled, shoving his hapless assistant.

Gina grinned.

The yells echoed through all of the prison underlevel for quite some time. Two guards at the exit heard, looked at one another, and suddenly found a spot of slime on the ceiling _terribly_ fascinating.

"Does that look a little stronger to you?" Newsie asked, setting the signal-finder down so Rhonda could check the level gauge alongside him.

She shivered, brushing a smattering of raindrops off her bedraggled blonde hair. "It looks the same as it's looked for the past two hours. Are you sure this is the right neighborhood? I sure as heck wouldn't put a transmitter anywhere around here...the local five-year-olds would make off with it and stow it in their stolen cars, and spraypaint their initials on anything they couldn't wrench loose!" She glared up at the old tenements closing in on either side of the narrow street. "I can tell no one around here can even _pronounce_ the word 'gentrification.'"

Frustrated, the raven-coated Newsman looked around. "It _has_ to be here somewhere! Nofrisko is a block away, and that Con-Ed tunnel entrance is just down the street!"

"Look, logical though that sounds, Goldie, we've had barely a blip on this thing all night and we've been going in circles around the whole lower east side!" Rhonda shook her head in disgust. "My hair is ruined, this scarf will probably shrink so much my little niece could use it as a bracelet –"

"Do you think I care about your clothing?" Newsie shouted, making her cringe. "I bet this ancient thing doesn't even _work!"_ He kicked the signal-finder box hard. "Grrrr _rah_! Ow...ow...ow..."

Rhonda glared at him as he hopped on the unhurt foot, about to snap back some tart comment, but then the box beeped. Both of them turned to stare at it. It beeped loudly, and the needle on the gauge was flicking strongly into the higher ranges, indicating the MMN signal output was very close. Rhonda quickly turned down the volume. "Nice work, Goldie," she murmured, removing the cotton from her ears.

Newsie looked at the signal strength, then stood on tiptoe, vainly peering up at the surrounding buildings. "It has to be one of these!" Eagerly he lifted the box again, limping slowly closer to a storefront, checking the gauge. Rhonda fell in step with him, her eyes darting from the dark, silent buildings to the box and back.

"Go that way," she directed, pointing where the street took a sharp curve toward the east as they moved southward. Newsie did so, and the needle swung toward the higher range. Excited, they paced along the edge of the broken sidewalk, determining which side of the street seemed to be stronger, heading into the curve. Just past the turn, the needle spiked into the red. Newsie stared up at an imposing edifice, the façade encrusted with crumbling plasterwork; he could tell the decorations evenly spaced above the second-floor ledge were supposed to be some sort of flower, and a vaguely pagoda-style roof, though missing many tiles, added to the Oriental flair the once-grand structure still possessed. Rhonda squinted, and read aloud the letters painted next to Chinese characters across the curved front door: "Happy Bogus...no, wait...Happy _Lotus._ Happy Lotus Hotel." She blinked, surprised. "Holy spookfest, Goldie! This place is on just about every ghost-hunting list there is!"

Newsie gave her a puzzled look. "You keep track of stuff like that?"

She shrugged. "My niece has a crush on that cute plumber-turned-parapsychologist guy on TV. I watch it with her sometimes." She shook her head. "Okay...four...five stories with the attic. Must be a small tower, I can't even see it from here."

"Then their studio must be under the hotel," Newsie guessed. "Wait a minute! Aren't we on Doyers?"

Rhonda pulled out her cell phone to check a satellite map, but quickly frowned. "Dang, no bars. Their stupid transmitter must be interfering. Yeah, I think so, why?"

Newsie felt like slapping himself. "Doyers Street! The hotel! Rhonda, this is where that charity walk is taking place in –" He looked at his watch, which showed the date as now Sunday the thirtieth. "About thirty-six hours! We can't let that happen!"

"Let's kill their fear signal," Rhonda suggested. "Then we can call the guys and warn 'em."

Newsie saw the rightness of that, but frowned. "I...I have to find Gina! Frog knows what they're doing to her even as we speak! She's been missing for hours already!"

Rhonda looked up at the decrepit roof, swallowing hard. "Okay...all right...what if I go up, and you go down? We'll meet back up in the lobby, soon as I disable the transmitter and you find your girl?"

Newsie paused, then nodded. He put both hands on the rat's slender shoulders. "You be careful."

She nodded back, less than thrilled. "You too, sunshine. Be as monstery as you can, okay?"

"I will," he promised. He dragged the signal-finder to the side of the entry stairs, shutting it off and pulling a snow-covered abandoned magazine from the sidewalk over the instrument to hide it from any casual observers. "Okay," he breathed, checking to make sure he looked nothing like his usual golden self. "Let's roll."

Rhonda gave him a curious look as they bounded up the steps together. "What?" he muttered, worrying that perhaps some of his felt was showing.

"Nothing," the rat replied. At the threshold, she added, "Courage looks good on you."

He blushed, glad she couldn't see it under the costume. "Thanks," he said gruffly, and pushed the front door open slowly. It creaked, and dust filtered down inside. A few paper banners and streamers swayed in the cold air they brought in with them, but otherwise, nothing seemed to be moving. One of the larger signs caught his eye. "MADL...sponsored by Nofrisko!"

"Yeah, that can't be good," Rhonda agreed. She peered up into the darkness above the grand landing of the wide staircase. "Well...here goes nothing."

"Stay out of sight!" Newsie hissed after her.

Rhonda paused once in her scramble up the stairs. "Oh, I'll be back. And _you_ will be buying me a new coat! Spiderweb gunk is _not_ chic!" In seconds she was out of sight.

Newsie looked around, and cautiously began exploring. When he entered the dining room, he thought he heard a skittering noise overhead; a nervous look up revealed nothing. _Ghost list, huh? No...I'm sure it's just spiders...seems to be an awful lot of webs here..._ Then again, he thought of the giant centipede somewhere below, and shuddered. _Bugs are just as bad as ghosts!_ He hoped any he encountered could be bluffed...

Walking slowly back through the lobby, he noticed a tattered web swaying in an air current...but it didn't seem to be anywhere close enough to the closed front door to catch a stray breeze through the cracks. Approaching it, he suddenly realized that the shadow under the grand staircase which he'd taken for just a shadow actually concealed another stairway, this one going down, and made of blocks of granite. He turned on his mini flashlight, shining it down only a few seconds, and saw the polished steps quickly gave way to more rough-hewn blocks. Taking a deep breath, doing his best to quell his anxiety and think only of Gina, his Gina, in danger somewhere down there, Newsie shut off his light – monsters didn't need lights – and slowly began the descent, one gloved hand trailing along a wall for whatever security he could receive. _Gina, I'm coming! I'll find you...I love you!_

He wished Rhonda luck, silently, and strained his eyes, peering ahead and down...and down...and down, into the blackness filled with whispery scuttlings and the scratchings of things like dry leaves on a windowpane at night.

The upper hallways of the hotel looked to Rhonda like something out of a videogame. Probably the kind with zombies. She tiptoed fast from doorway to doorway, pausing at each one to glance inside before she passed it. _Don't wanna know what those noises are...don't wanna know, so don't show me..._ Breathing hard but as quietly as she could, she scrambled for the next staircase heading up. The second and third floors had been warrens of dark corridors punctuated by rotting doors or open doorways where the doors had fallen...or been torn...off their hinges. She didn't want to know what was in the rooms; skitterings and whisperings and, once, the sound of faint, low laughter frightened her. _Don't wanna know...just get me to the roof!_

The fourth floor seemed divided in half, with no continuing staircase in sight. Off to the right, enormous arched doorways opened into a vast, dark space; scant light from the street filtered in through half-rotted curtains draped from ceiling to floor over broad dusty windows. Rhonda peeked inside cautiously; movement in a far corner made her freeze and crouch low. Across the wide room, a huge orange-furred spider was busily fussing with some thread... _Webbing,_ she realized, watching a moment, curiosity getting the better of her. _It's using web silk to...to..._ She frowned in disbelief. _A giant spider crocheting?_

The monstrous arachnid hummed as it worked, its front two legs wielding silver crochet needles, rapidly making what looked like a giant hammock anchored between two tall decorative pillars. _What the heck is a giant spider doing crocheting a hammock in a ballroom?_ Deciding that, again, she probably didn't want to know, she scanned the room for other exits. There was an open shaft for a dumbwaiter in one wall, but the doorways all seemed to lead back to the fourth-floor landing. Moving silently, Rhonda picked her way through the thick dust coating the floor, her nose wrinkling in disgust; she never, ever went barefoot like this, especially not in frog knows what decomposed debris, but her shoes might have made too much noise. _Not to mention, feet are easier to clean than Jimmy Choos._

The other half of this floor seemed composed of suites of rooms; back in the hotel's heyday, this must have been where the wealthiest guests stayed, when formal balls were actually held in the great room across the hall. _Bet the schmucks on the lower floors loved hearing the fat cats partying over their heads all night. Hah...symbolic._ _One_ of these doors had to lead to the roof stairs. Rhonda hurried from one to another of the doors, trying to peer under the jambs, but the dust was so thick she wound up backing away and stifling a cough. _Nuts...gonna have to start opening doors._ She approached one at the end of the row, hoping it made more sense that the stairs up would be at one or another end of the building instead of the middle, and studied the glass doorknob. A gentle push on the peeling wood at her level confirmed the door was indeed shut tight. Sighing, Rhonda took off her scarf, knotted a noose in one end, and flung it high. It took her three tries to lasso the doorknob. She yanked down hard, tightening the noose, then grabbed the scarf in finely-manicured little claws and hoisted herself up, grateful she'd continued her fitness training even _after_ that cute instructor Gene Gerbil had been fired for sleeping with the clients...her arms were strong, and she kept her balance when she climbed to the knob, braced her feet against the door, and with a ladylike grunt wrenched the doorknob to the left. The door creaked open very, very slowly. Panting, Rhonda loosened the noose and leapt to the floor with the scarf, staring worriedly inside.

At first she couldn't make out anything, though she heard a strange sucking, slurping sound. Then two pairs of glowing eyes turned toward her, and in their faint illumination she saw the two monsters smooching. Their lips parted with a pop, and a rough-voiced growl sounded: "Seriously! Do you _mind?"_

"Sorry," Rhonda squeaked, and tugged on the door-edge to swing it closed. She ran for the next door, expecting to be caught any second. This one wasn't shut all the way; she wriggled inside, looking around quickly, to find yet another sitting-room with decrepit ottomans and wingback chairs. Something stirred in the bedchamber beyond. Rhonda rushed out, hurrying to the next door down the landing hallway.

This one, though shut, had a loose piece of wood in the jamb where termites or dry-rot had eaten away at the frame. Gritting her teeth, Rhonda pulled down the loose wood; it crumbled in her paws. "Ugh," she muttered, then poked her head in – to come almost nose-to-nose with another rat. "Yeek!"

"Agghh!" the rat cried, then darted forward, grabbing Rhonda's nose with a heavy paw. "Shhhhh! Don't tell 'em where I am!"

Rhonda fought him off. "Get _off_ me, you moron! I'm a rat too! Ewww...your paws smell like garbage!" She spat, wishing she'd brought a breath mint along.

"Oh...uh, sorry," the bigger rat apologized. "I was rootin' through the dumpsters behind Long Foo's earlier."

She stared at him; he was as burly as Rizzo's friend Bubba, and clad in a survivalist vest over his thick gray fur, but his eyes seemed more intelligent than most of the rats' she'd ever met in the city. He had an odd accent, too. When he turned to check the room behind him, making sure nothing stirred, Rhonda saw his tail was long, furry, and had a puff at the tip. "You're not from around here," she observed.

"Naw, Sydney's me home, love. Chaz Doonkirk, at your service." The kangaroo rat stuck out a paw, thought better of it, wiped it on his vest and then offered again. Rhonda shook it carefully. "So. What's a sweet little slip of a gal doin' in a place like this?"

Rhonda shook her head. "I really, really wish I had time to explain it to you...believe me, I do," she said, appreciatively eyeing the muscles shifting beneath that sleek fur. "But right now I really need to get onto the roof and shut down that TV transmitter! Do you know how to get up there?"

"Well sure, love, howd'ya think I came in here, through the front door like some common bloke?" Chaz grinned; a gold tooth sparkled. "Rat o' all trades like me, I got some tricks about gettin' into places. Especially places what the locals all claim to be _haunted,_ y'see, 'cause that usually just means boobytrapped or guarded by some mean sneaky cat!" He lifted his jaw proudly. "I'm an adventurer, love; I go places nobody else will, and reap the rewards for a bold heart!"

"Uh huh," Rhonda sighed, starting to melt. She shook herself out of it impatiently. "Okay, great – can you get me onto the roof?"

He grinned again. "A request from a damsel in distress? How could I resist?" He slipped past her out the hole in the doorframe; Rhonda shivered when his fur brushed her coat. "This way," he hissed, beckoning, and Rhonda hastened to follow. The two rodents scurried along the floor trim, pausing now and then when Chaz suddenly stopped and held up a paw like a point-man in a military detail, then gestured forward again. They reached a small door set between two of the suite doors, painted to blend in with the wall – at least, in the dim light of a gray dawn coming through the dusty window at the end of the hall, Rhonda _thought_ it was. Hard to tell since all the paint seemed faded and peeling, but this door was skinnier and less ornate than the others. Chaz uncurled a bullwhip from his belt. "Woven cat whiskers," he told her, with another cheeky grin.

Watching him expertly sling it up and catch the doorknob, Rhonda asked, "So, if ya don't mind me asking, what's an Aussie rat doing in New York – especially at this junkheap?"

"Got bored hunting crocs," Chaz muttered, tugging on the whip to secure it. "Thought I'd come here and try to get into some trouble. Worked for that crazy zookeeper, why not me? Might get me own show. Chaz Doonkirk, wild urban explorer!" He gestured, picturing his name on a title screen. "Right then. Up ya go, love."

Rhonda could feel his eyes on her, and felt warm for the first time since setting foot in the rickety hotel. She climbed quickly up the whip, seeing an enlarged keyhole just under the door. Her coat wasn't going to fit. She paused, stuck in a dilemma, then thought of the monsters below holding Gina and Newsie's cousin...and the horrible fear she'd experienced from hearing that screeching signal through MMN. With a breath to steel herself for the ridicule, she shrugged out of her coat one arm at a time and dropped it so she could shimmy through the hole. When Chaz dropped down on the other side of the door a moment later, she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Goodness," the Aussie murmured. "Love, 'scuse my asking, but would you happen to be one a' those naked mole rats?"

"No, I'm not," Rhonda snapped. "I was almost eaten by an acid-spitting slug and thank you _so_ much for bringing it up. Does this go to the roof?" She glared up a set of plain wooden stairs.

"Uh, yeah... An acid-spitting slug? Crikey, that sounds exciting...where on earth was this?"

Rhonda didn't look back, climbing the stairs toward a sliver of light at the top. "Near here, underground. You want adventure, hotshot, down _there's_ where it's at!" She heard a commotion in the hallway they'd just left, and moved faster. "Oh crap – they saw us!"

"Who, those big hairy blokes?" Chaz laughed. "No worries, love! They're too fat to get through the hole, and the lock's rusted!" But even he jumped when heavy pounding rattled the door. "Um. Up ya go. Quickly now."

They scrambled to the stuck-partly-open door leading to the roof; Rhonda shivered uncontrollably. The night air had stayed barely above freezing, and the dawn slowly creeping up beyond the cloudy sky didn't help dissipate the extreme chill. She jumped when a strong arm went around her shoulders. "Goodness, you poor girl! Now, where's this thingamajig you need to shut down?"

Rhonda decided not to comment on his sudden closeness; at least he was warm. She cast an anxious gaze around, at last spotting the small metal structure in the center of the roof, partly hidden by a water tower for the building. "There!" Together they raced for it. The sounds of howling, snarling, and something large and gruff yelling for a battering ram came from the stairwell. "Oh frog, oh frog..." She tried not to think about how the heck she was going to get back _down,_ much less how Newsie might be faring somewhere below. Reaching the transmitter, she studied it quickly from a couple of angles, locating the power cables and the main line of the antenna. "Okay...looks pretty old-school, shouldn't be too hard to disable. All we gotta do is disconnect the power, and they lose the signal."

Chaz glanced up at the transmitter, then back at the roof entry; loud, steady banging sounded from just below. "I didn't even notice that thing before. Why is there some kind of signal thingy atop this old wreck?"

"Because there are monsters trying to take over the city who run a TV network underground," Rhonda explained hurriedly, tugging at the base of the power conduit, unable to budge it. "Ungh...and...and they're broadcasting a signal which terrifies anyone who watches their station...and they've kidnapped my friend's girlfriend...and they eat rats!" She gave him an exasperated glare. "Wouldya _help_ me already?"

His expression changing to one of determination, Chaz nodded. He pulled a multitool from a pocket of his vest, and set to work unscrewing the base of the conduit. "Got a wire stripper on this too, but isn't this thing live?"

"Yes," Rhonda panted, stepping back to let him work.

He paused to look at her seriously. "You're willing to get electrocuted just to shut this thing down?"

She shrugged. "Not if a big strong man volunteers instead..."

He shook his head, amazed. "You're either crazy or the bravest gal I've ever seen."

"Both," Rhonda agreed. "Can you get it open?"

"Yes," he grunted, spinning the last screw out of place. Rhonda peeled open the thin metal of the conduit guarding the insulated wires running power to the transmitter, and took a deep breath.

"It has to be so wrecked they can't just plug it back in," she muttered, studying the wires, trying to decide how to do this.

"I think we have another problem," Chaz said, and Rhonda suddenly realized he didn't hear a banging noise anymore. She whirled. A large orange spider, two bearlike things with fat pink lips, and a squat, obese bat all glared at her as they advanced along the roof. "All right, you lot, clear off! This is an electrical company routine signal-maker inspection!" the rat yelled.

"Nice try," Rhonda sighed when the monsters looked at one another, then continued to come for the rats, toothy grins trailing drool along the rooftop. "Oh my frog, these look almost as gross as the bugs..."

"Nice knowing you," Chaz told her, and suddenly flicked his whip at the crawling bat. It yelped, stung.

"Get thaf rat-bish, Shteve!" the bat croaked, waving its tiny wings. The furry orange spider roared, lunging forward, the smoochy-lip monsters right behind it.

"Aaaaaggghh!" Rhonda shrieked, leaping up the transmitter.

"Come on then, you cowards!" Chaz was yelling as they overwhelmed him. "Takes four a' you to gang up on me, does it? You wankers! You nasty, crawly, flea-ridden—" His insult was choked off; Rhonda looked down, terrified, to see a fluffy tail-tip disappearing between the lips of one of the lumbering big-mouthed creatures with a sickening spaghetti-slurp.

"Oh frog no, no, no!" She climbed and climbed, reached the tip of the antenna, and realized she had nowhere to go. The top of the water-tower was close by, but then what? Seeing the spider climbing fast behind her, Rhonda held her breath and jumped. Her claws caught and clung to the peaked round roof of the tower. She looked back; the spider was readying a net of silk, creepy mouthparts weaving it as his pointed feet gathered it from under him. Rhonda looked around desperately. Could she make it to the edge of the roof, and climb down? The façade had appeared on the verge of total disintegration...but the alternative didn't hold much appeal. With a squeak of effort, she launched herself from the tower, aiming for the nearest edge of rooftop, bracing her muscles for the landing. _Tuck and roll and run like heck,_ she told herself, remembering the gymnastics she'd taken until her late teens, when she'd wanted to become a stunt rat, before that journalism class in community college had changed everything. She felt the impact on her shoulders, gasping in pain, and tried to roll with it...and found herself bound tightly in a grubby clawed fist. She screamed, thrashing, but the fat bat only chuckled.

"Outfielder for the Cavernsh High Troglodyshe, nineteen-eighty-nine," the bat crooned at her. "Come on, shweetie. I know a monshter downshtairsh whosh gonna pay me top dollar for a tashty morshel like you!"

"Awww but Clarence," the spider groaned, loping over, "I didn't get ta use my net! Can I – Can I at least has your cookie?" He leaned over, eight eyes wide and drool dripping from his fangs. Rhonda looked up into that horrible face, and couldn't breathe from the tight grip squeezing her ribs, and then the spider's awful breath wafted into her face...she fainted.

The spider's face drooped. "Heeeyyy...cookie stale _already?"_


	51. Chapter 44

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR. _In which there is a magnificent undead thespian, a Muppety pie, and the usual backstage chaos._

The stairs proved slimy and treacherous, and the Newsman reconsidered his choice to descend in darkness. He could hear alarming scratching and skittering noises all around him, and suspected that if he suddenly switched his light on he would see hundreds of creepy-crawlies shying away...or veering closer. _Monsters don't use flashlights,_ he reminded himself nervously. _Be a monster. Act like you belong here. Rizzo said bluffing is all about sticking your nose where it doesn't belong and telling everyone it does._ He'd asked the rat to give him some card-playing tips a few weeks back, when Gina accepted an invitation to attend a poker night at her friend Scott's place and coaxed Newsie into coming along. There had ensued more advice about kings and aces and drawing for a straight flush than Newsie had been able to process, but he remembered one phrase, and it seemed useful now. _Act like you hold the right cards, and they'll have to play along._

He wondered how Rhonda was faring. That charity walk simply _couldn't_ take place – at least, not here! _She has to get that transmitter down...and warn the rest of the guys! If she doesn't..._ He chided himself. _Hey, have a little faith in your colleague! She'll get it done...after all, she knows all that technical stuff – she can even EDIT!_ Nodding, feeling sufficiently humbled, he stiffened his foam against whatever lay below. _Just focus on YOUR job here! Everything will work out fine with Rhonda...just go find Gina!_ Step by careful step, he continued down.

The feel of the rock against his hand, even through the glove, became rougher, more like a cave wall than concrete, and then his feet found a flat level, making him stumble. Catching his balance, Newsie patted the air with his hands, trying to sense how large this area might be, advancing slowly. After a moment his foot found an edge; he tapped lower cautiously, and found another stair. _A landing,_ he realized. _Some kind of landing...so what's here?_ His questing hand discovered something that squeaked and squirmed before he yanked away in disgust. _Don't turn the light on, don't turn the light on..._ He found a piece of wall off to the right which felt smoother; further investigation gave him an idea of how big it was, about as far as his arms could stretch and bounded by a frame of some sort...and then he found the doorknob. _A door! But there's more stairs going down..._ He hesitated, then realized since he really had no idea where exactly to start looking for Gina, this was as good as anyplace. He tried the knob.

The strings of small pumpkin-and-skull-shaped twinkle lights hit him like streetlamps after so much darkness. He stood in the doorway several seconds, blinking, trying to adjust. _What the hey? Some kind of chemistry lab?_ Tables full of glass beakers, distillation flasks over simmering burners, and strange machines took up much of the space. More disturbing were the body parts scattered around: bug-wings pinned to a piece of cardboard, jars labeled "fang marrow" and "octo-arms" and "cute fluffy feathers" lined a series of shelves. "What the heck is going on in here?" he murmured aloud.

A loud scuffle and squeak jerked his attention outside to the landing; in the light cast through the open door, numerous centipedes, worms, and unidentifiable bugs scrambled up the walls. Newsie gulped, shuddering, and then heard what was causing all the disturbance: a heavy set of feet tromping up the lower stairs. Something roared, "Doc? That you?"

Hastily Newsie ducked back into the creepy lab and shut the door, but the footsteps continued to close in, echoes shaking the fragile test tubes in their stands. Frantically Newsie looked around; this room was too crowded with junk, he couldn't see anyplace he might hide, and suddenly the idea of bluffing a monster with a silly raven costume seemed less than wise. He spotted another door half-hidden by party streamers. He didn't allow himself time to wonder _why_ the whole room looked decorated for a Halloween party, lunging at the door and pushing it open. A room full of cages startled him, and he stood confounded a moment, staring at the winged kitten and the blue hamster with ram's horns and the slithery thing that looked like a feather boa come to life. Mewlings and growls and barks sounded all over the room. The loud tread outside stopped at the lab door, and a heavy hand knocked twice. "Yo, Doc! Saw a light – that you? Hey, didja finish that dancing spider yet? Haw, haw...always wanted ta see a tarantula do a tarantella..." The doorknob turned.

Panicking, Newsie cast about for any haven at all, and saw one corner of the room which seemed unoccupied, holding only a large glass enclosure. He opened the front of it, barely noticing the symbols etched into the glass, and turned to face the room again, shutting himself in quickly. When the door to this room opened, Newsie held as still as he could, willing the trembling in his limbs to stop shaking the feathers, pretending to be a stuffed specimen. Something with the face of a bulldog and crablike eyestalks, all covered in stripey yellow-and-green fur, shoved its head through the doorway; Newsie expected the creature to be too big to come all the way inside, but then it squeezed its head through, and the outlandishly tiny body which trotted in under it almost made him gape and give himself away. Straightening stiffly when the monster's gaze swung his way, Newsie held his breath. "Huh. Guess he ain't here. Maybe he went upstairs..." The monster glared around at the caged creatures, which all fell silent. "You freaks shut up! Don't you know it's daylight? Time for good little monsters to get some sleep!" With another scowl around at everyone, the bulldog-headed thing slammed the door. Newsie heard its disproportionately heavy tread stomping back to the landing, and then going upstairs. "Hey Doooooc! I wanna see that tarraaaaantulaaaa!" it howled.

Newsie exhaled. Everything else in the room seemed to do the same, and then numerous pairs of eyes were staring at him. "Uh...hi." Newsie tried, with a halfhearted wave of a black-feathered glove, to be friendly. However, the creatures backed away, cringing into their cages as tightly as they could curl themselves. "No, no...it's okay...see? I'm a Muppet," Newsie tried to reassure them, pulling off his raven mask and resettling his glasses on his golden-felted nose. "See?"

 _"Youuuu,"_ a throaty, threatening voice sounded... _right behind him._

The Newsman whirled; a blue snout wrinkled in contempt shoved up against his nose. "Aaaauuugh!" Newsie cried, stumbling away; his back slapped against the glass wall. The spectral blue dragon in a ragged velvet cloak pressed closer, still snarling. A clawed finger poked Newsie in the chest, and he choked on a shriek.

"This is all _your_ fault!" Uncle Deadly accused, raised both arms, and lunged. "Grrrraaaaaaaahhh!"

Newsie yelped, turned on a toe, and smacked his face right into the glass so hard he knocked himself unconscious.

They had to splash cold water over Snookie to wake him; the party had raged on all night, and Pew, BD and Hem had insisted he stay until the very last Smell-O shot had been downed. It felt like he'd barely staggered into his cell and lain down on the cold, hard floor before the guards were laughing at him and dragging him to his feet. "N-no," Snookie groaned. "No, I can't...so tired..."

"Come on, slug! Move it!" the goblin ordered, jabbing Snookie's soft round nose with a sharp finger. "You're due on set in an hour! Gotta get you all presentable!"

"Too bad ya can't make him handsome, too," rumbled the guard, one of the weekend-shift members with huge crawfish arms. He used a claw to hoist the weakly protesting show host along the corridor. "Shower time, lunch meat! C'mon, ya smell like strawberry Smell-O..."

"I think Pew threw up on my shoes," Snookie groaned. He could barely move his feet across the floor, and this dragging was really straining his shoulder. "Froggit, stop! You're pulling my arm off!"

"Oh yeah? Well den we'll just hafta call the Doc and have him stitch you up, Muppet!" the guard chortled. Snookie had no say in the routine; he felt about to lose whatever might be left in his stomach. He nearly collapsed when they shoved him under a chilling showerhead, but the three-degrees-above-freezing water shocked him into a howl of outrage.

"Aaaagh! Stop it! Stop it!" He thrashed, but strong hands shoved him back under the stream of icicles, and another yanked his undershirt and shorts off. Snookie whimpered, barely able to stand, as another monster scrubbed him haphazardly with a grungy loofa. The smell of whatever soap they'd lathered in it made him heave. _"Frog,_ what the frog _is_ that frogging stuff?" he moaned, hastily protecting his more sensitive area with both hands.

"Sheesh, language!" the guard scolded. When they decided he was mostly clean, they dragged him out of the water and slapped a rough burlap towel around him. "You should be grateful! One a' your sponsors ordered you special soap, not burning lye like the rest'a the mooks down here!"

"If that's special, I'd hate to see the regular menu," Snookie gasped, teeth chattering. "Come on, guys, I can't work like this! That stupid party went all night, I've had _no_ sleep at all, I feel like foam on a shingle..."

The goblin overseer snorted. "Well then I guess you shouldn'ta stayed out so late, should ya? Move it, Muppet! Your schedule says..." He consulted a bright pink clipboard. "You got _'Are You Dumber Than a Box of Rocks'_ up first today. Studio thirty-seven, let's hustle."

Snookie tried to stay on his feet as fresh clothing was unceremoniously pulled onto him; he didn't have the energy or the will to bother with tying his tie or tugging his shirtsleeves past the cuffs of the ugly plaid sports coat. He stumbled after the goblin, shoved frequently by the clawed guard. "No...no more...can't do this any more...need sleep..." Snookie mumbled, but they ignored him. Vaguely he saw a door opened for him, camerafrackles stretching and yawning, and a yellowish feathery thing with a duck's bill and enormous flippers surreptitiously checking the cheat sheet it had written on the inside of its wing before the game show started. "I can't..." Snookie groaned, but he was dumped into a chair just off the set.

"He's all yours," the guard grunted, leaving the studio. Snookie strained to open his eyes fully; when the director-monster, a giant pink thing with six-foot-long arms, dipped his head to stare into Snookie's face, he was too exhausted to react.

"All ready," a stagefrackle announced; the director bobbed his mouthless head in a nod, and gestured at Snookie. The host looked slowly around at them all: monsters at the cameras, monsters at the sound board, monsters in the small audience, and a box of rocks and the duck-thing both squared off against one another at raised, lit podiums. Snookie shook his head, clinging to the arms of the canvas chair.

"No...no," he muttered. "Just leave me alone...I can't do this today. I just can't."

Outside the door, Carl checked the half-eaten taping schedule tacked to the wall. "Aha, here he is..." He pushed open the door, looking around, careful about interrupting a show taping, but they didn't seem to have started yet. He hailed the leggy director: "Hey, Bob! You seen Snookums here yet?"

The monster which seemed to be all arms and legs waved at Snookie, then back at the set; one white-gloved hand grabbed Snookie's wrist and tried to pull him up. With a groan, Snookie struggled to his feet. He took a step, eyes barely open, then another – then fell face-first to the floor and remained there. The director poked him with a shoe, then began gesturing angrily. Carl hurried over. "Hey, language!" he snapped; the director gave him a rude gesture and loped away, flinging down his headset. Carl shook Snookie's shoulder. "Hey, buddy, c'mon, ya gotta show to do! Up and at 'em!"

Snookie registered the familiar, if not exactly welcome voice. "Carl...? Whaddayouwant?" he groaned.

"Well, I just dropped by ta give you your script for tomorrow's _'Monsters Tonight';_ there's this _great_ bit I thought up, where you come out dressed as a pumpkin, and I stuff you in a piecrust, and..." Carl trailed off, blinking in surprise. He'd expected a joyful argument, a tart protest, something, _anything_ much more energetic than the reception this news garnered: Snookie had drifted off again, his face pressed sideways to the ground, damp black hair falling over his eyes. Carl stood up fully, regarding his Muppet sidekick in some confusion. The show director took two steps and loomed over them both, long arms reaching down to grab Snookie. Carl stepped in his way.

The director jerked up, startled, then launched into a series of gestures and head-shaking which made even Carl, the Big Jaded Cynic wince. "Can't ya see he's bushed?" Carl snarled. He hefted Snookie over his shoulder; the Muppet felt lighter than a sack of saffron. When the director angrily shoved his round head with its cucumber of a nose into Carl's fat, flat one, Carl took that bobbing nose firmly in a huge furry paw and shoved it back as hard as he could. Off-balance, the director flailed and crashed in a pile of loopy pink limbs. "Use a re-run!" Carl shouted, glaring around at the rest of the crew to see if anyone _else_ had a problem. Since he was bigger than all of them, none of them did, though they all stared at him. "Stupid slave-driving wombats!" Carl growled, and with a huff, carried the unconscious Snookie out of the studio.

Snookie came to briefly, smelling cinnamon and allspice. He turned his head slowly, hoping to disturb the pounding as little as possible, and saw a fluted rim all around him; the stuff under his head was soft and a bit gushy, and smelled pleasantly spicy. He managed to focus his vision a little more, and saw Carl cheerfully whistling "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" as his paws massaged a giant pile of dough. "Did you...did you say something about a pie?" Snookie whispered, unable to find any strength for his voice.

Carl perked, and turned to him with a grin. "That's right! But it'll take some practice...I _hate_ pastry, it's so darned hard to get perfectly flaky...you just lay down a while, Snookums. You can play pumpkin filling soon enough."

"Great," Snookie mumbled, turned his head away from the obscenely perky monster, and within seconds had passed out again.

Constanza paused in her grating of the fresh nutmeg to glare at Carl. "That's really, _really_ mean of you to bake him when he's like that!"

Carl growled at her, suddenly looming over her shoulder. "It's not your place to criticize me! Now shut up and grate that nut, or I'll practice my mince-Muppet technique on _you!"_ When the dual-toned girl clamped her mouth shut, but continued to glare while she worked, Carl relented, going back to his dough. "Besides," he muttered, "I'm not cooking him today."

Constanza stopped cold, staring. "You're _not?"_

"Are you kidding?" Carl snapped, with an angry thump of his paw against the giant pie crust Snookie was curled in; the sleeping Muppet groaned, and Carl hastily drew back, with a worried look at his pie filler. "He's...he doesn't taste _nearly_ as good that way! I like 'em better awake and screaming!" Two huge yellow eyes narrowed at the _sous-chef_. "Back to work!"

Constanza did as she was bidden, but after a moment, glanced back at Blyer... and was very surprised to see Carl stroking back that dark hair almost gently, and then prodding Blyer's mouth with a spoonful of pumpkin pudding until the Muppet accepted it. Carl watched, making sure he swallowed, then offered another spoonful. Sensing eyes on him, Carl turned, but his kitchen helper was diligently scraping the nutmeg into a bowl. Carl resumed trying to feed the malnourished Muppet, gently urging him to swallow spoonful after spoonful of pudding. "Come on, buddy," Carl whispered. "Gotta keep your strength up. That's it. I even used milk instead of sewer gunge...there ya go..."

The kitchen remained quiet all morning, and although one trial pie was baked, no Muppets were harmed. Snookie slept soundly, tummy full and sore head cradled in soft dough, breathing in autumnal spices and steamy air, and dreamed of places and times long ago, when he last felt _safe._

"Are you going to lay around all day, or can we expect something possibly _useful_ out of you?" the sonorous voice demanded; the Newsman blinked to clear his vision, but what he saw made him cry out hoarsely and scramble to escape it. The ghostly dragon frowned. "Oh come now! That wasn't even my Carradine impression!" He preened his floating whiskers. "Although I must say I found your reaction _quite_ flattering...er...do you need a change of pants?"

"What? No!" Newsie snapped, managing to rise after taking a moment to figure out which way his feet were. Dazed, he stared at the phantom. "You...you're the ghost from the Muppet Theatre!"

"You know, as you _call_ yourself a journalist, I would expect you to remember proper titles and actually _address_ people by them," the spectre sniffed. "That would be the _Phantom_ of the Muppet Theatre, thank you! Uncle Deadly, to my friends." He leaned closer to a trembling Newsman. "Which _you_ most definitely are not!"

Recalling what the ghost had said, Newsie tried to formulate a coherent protest. "Wait...I... _what's_ my fault? I didn't do anything to you!" Memory returning, he scowled right back. "In fact, last I remember, I asked _you_ for help, and was roundly ignored!"

Deadly lifted his chin haughtily. "You idiot, how do you think I wound up imprisoned in this _horrible_ dungeon, trapped cruelly _far_ from _all_ I hold dear...and you simpletons as well?" He flicked a well-clawed hand at the glass walls. "Were it not for _your_ insistence that the monsters were up to no good, I should not have come here to investigate, and never have been so foully tricked and stuffed into a glass case like some sideshow specimen!"

Newsie blinked at him, then turned his head to look at the glass. "Why don't you just walk out? The door's unlocked," he pointed out. "Ungh..." He squirmed as his nose was shoved flat against the glass door.

"Do you not _see_ those cabalist symbols, you fool?" Deadly demanded. "That is black magic of the lowest, most diabolical order, which holds me fast within this cell! I _cannot_ simply walk out! It's against the rules." Releasing the Newsman, he folded his arms, snout in the air.

"Black mag—wait. Against the _rules?"_ Newsie stopped trying to get his nose to resume its usual pointed dimensions, glaring at the ghost. "Are you telling me you're stewing in this corner because of some stupid gentleman's agreement?"

Deadly waved a hand at the etched symbols. "Well, it wouldn't be sporting, would it, if the undead could do whatever we wanted? You lot wouldn't have a chance! It would be utter chaos and pandemonium! It would..." He paused, considering it. "You may just have a point there, goldbeak."

"Hey!"

"But enough with the petty discussions of who ruined whose weekend," Deadly said airily. "Open this cell at once, and I shall be on my way!"

"Wait," Newsie said, a crazy idea forming. "Did you just say you came down here to investigate the monsters?"

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well, what did you find out?"

Deadly sighed. "You know, I never did like your kind."

"Muppets?"

"The _press!"_ Deadly huffed. "Always pointing out my Othello was the _bluest_ they'd ever seen! As if Orson Welles was Moorish!"

"I'm not that kind of press," Newsie argued. "I'm a legitimate journalist, Phantom! Now tell me, _please:_ what did you find out? What's the monster plan?"

"Ho ho, good one!" The smirk died immediately, and Deadly turned serious. "They're planning to destroy the city – to draw obliquely over it an endless night, as a hunting ground for all monsters! They're _not_ playing very cricket, I can tell you that."

"H-how will they do that?"

"How should I know? It may just be campaign rhetoric," Deadly grumbled. "That dictator they've got doesn't exactly seem to be performing to a full house, if you catch my drift..."

"What dictator?"

"Oh, you know, the big shadowy fellow with the red glowing eyes," Deadly said with a shrug. "Massive ego, proper diction, wields the entire monster population like his own personal Punch-and-Judy players...this isn't ringing a bell for you, is it."

"I knew it," Newsie gasped. "I _knew_ there had to be someone controlling them! They're _never_ this organized!" Anxiety rising again, he grabbed the dragon's raggedy arm, though he quickly released it when both of them looked down at his gloved hand going right through the spectral fur. "Er...have you seen where they keep the other prisoners? Tell me!"

Glowing green eyes narrowed to pinpricks. "Why, are you going to break them all out? You haven't done a spectacular job on _that_ front yet," he needled, looking from Newsie to the closed glass door.

Annoyed, Newsie swung the door open. "There! Now just tell me where the prisoners are! My girlfriend's down here, and they say they're going to kill her!"

"What?" Startled, Deadly reared back, studying the earnest Muppet's face mistrustfully. "They're not allowed to do that! Eating people, yes, certainly...but actually _killing_ them? As in making them dead? Bereft of body? Corpsical casualties?"

 _"Yes!"_ Newsie shouted, getting nose-to-nose with the dragon. "Yes! Killing! As in dead! As in what they've threatened to do to _my_ Gina!"

"That lovely Gypsy girl with the cute little cards?" Deadly put a claw to his lips, musing. "Oh now that simply _won't do!_ She did the most delightful reading for me the other day...all my cards came up Ghosts, of course..."

Newsie started. "What? Gina did a reading for you?" _When the heck was that? She never mentioned it to me!_

Deadly grinned, showing an unsettling amount of jagged fangs. "Ooh, looks like she _doesn't_ tell you everything, does she? How very naughty! Oh, I like her even better now..."

"When was this?"

"At that charming little _soirée_ at the farm...where last I saw you in that ridiculous get-up. You were bumping into the _grass."_

"I'm nearsighted," Newsie grumped. He thrust a pointing finger out the glass door. "Do whatever you want, but first show me where they're keeping her! I have to get her out of here!"

Deadly strolled out of the cell, making a great show of stretching immaterial muscles and taking a deep breath into nonexistent lungs. "Ahhhhh...that's better! All right then, let's go find your lady...and shut these naughty nellies down." He swaggered across the room, then realized the Newsman wasn't behind him, and turned, puzzled. "Well? Are you going to stand there with that positively _enormous_ mouth agawp like some game fish, or are you going to do what you came here to do?"

"You...uh...er..." Newsie swallowed and tried again. "You're going to help me?"

Deadly scowled. "Whatever makes you think that? _I_ am going to uphold the _sacred_ laws of monsterdom, which _these_ foolish fiends have evidently forgot in all their playing at Third Reich!" He swirled his cape around him, lifting it before his nose in proper skulking position. "Come along, little Muppet! And _do_ at least put your head back on, you look even _more_ idiotic without it."

The Newsman shut his jaw again, grabbed his raven mask and pulled it snug over his face, hastily resettled his glasses on the beak so he could see _something,_ and hurried after the Phantom stalking magnificently out of the lab.

Kermit looked around at the before-show chaos, feeling calmer than he probably should. _Then again, why shouldn't I? The proofs for Piggy's perfume ads looked great and she even liked three of the shots; Fozzie came up with some Halloween jokes that are actually less corny than usual; the Mutations are back from their cruise and seem perfectly normal...relatively, anyway,_ he mused, glancing again at the gangly purple monsters checking each other's bow ties and cummerbunds, getting ready for the opening theme. He'd questioned them earlier, and all three of them said they didn't know anything about an undercity plot, but the ladies in Majorca sure were furry... Kermit shook his head, relieved. _I guess someone just gave the Newsman a bad tip. Well...it's not as though many of his stories seem all that credible most of the time._ He felt guilty for thinking thus, but shrugged it off. _Probably his info came from the Muppet Newswire, and how reliable can a story be when it's usually about feral sofas or pigs FROM space?_

Scooter stopped at his desk mid-dash. "Hey Boss, did Beau get that tree onstage yet?"

Kermit peered out; behind the closed maindrape, he could see vague scenery-ish shapes. "Uh...I hope so. Wait. _Why_ do we have a tree onstage again?"

"Oh, remember, the opening number is 'Turn, Turn, Turn,' and we need the leaves to fall and then grow back and then fall again. Gnarled Barkley has been rehearsing with the girls all week to get the timing right!"

"Gnarled..." Kermit decided he didn't want to know. "Okay. Uh huh. Hey, Beauregard!" he yelled. He peered around but didn't see the janitor anywhere. "Where's he got to now? Beau! _Beau_ reee—"

"Yes?"

Kermit jumped. "Eeesh! Don't _do_ that! Things have been unsettling enough around here lately as it is!" The baffled janitor just stared at him, so Kermit regained some composure and pointed onstage. "Did you get the tree set up for the opening number?"

The furry brow furrowed. "Uhhh...what tree?"

"The tree for the opening number! It's big, it has a trunk and branches and leaves –" Kermit began, feeling his earlier calm evaporating.

A lightbulb went on; Beau's eyes widened. "Oh _that_ tree! Oh...uh...last time I saw it, it was chasing Beaker with a chainsaw."

Kermit shuddered involuntarily. _"Why_ was a tree chasing Beaker with a chainsaw?"

"I'm not sure...it was roaring a lot. Something about...it didn't _want_ any Muppet Labs Patent Pending Miracle-Fro?"

"Eeesh," Kermit groaned. He got on the intercom. "Scooter! Axe the tree! Just have some of the stagepigs dump some leaves from the flyrail or something!"

A very large oak suddenly bent over the frog. _"What did you say,_ tiny squishable creature?"

"Eeek...uhh...figure of speech, heh heh?"

"Thought so." The tree creaked its roots, shuffling slowly onstage. "And I better not see that skinny guy again either." Grumbling, it moved center stage, waiting for its cue.

Shaking his head, Kermit slumped on his stool. "When am I going to learn it just keeps getting weirder around here?"

Scooter shrugged gamely. "Gee, I don't know, Chief - when _will_ you?" At his boss' glare, Scooter laughed, and held up a flyer. "Take a look! Got the promo sheets back from the printer's." He handed the orange paper with black printing to Kermit; the frog looked it over, nodding in approval.

"Looks good. Nice job," he said. The flyer had grinning jack-o'lanterns bordering big block letters: _MADL CHARITY WALK Featuring THE MUPPETS! LIVE on MMN MONDAY OCT 31st at 7 pm! SIMULTANEOUS WEBCAST at_ _.COM_ _!_ Kermit frowned lightly. "Kind of an ominous website address, though..."

Scooter shrugged. "It's the only domain name they could get on short notice, they said. But hey, it's Halloween! It's supposed to be good scary fun, right?"

"True," Kermit agreed. "Has everyone been issued their _'Ham in a Cabin'_ t-shirt?"

"Well, most of 'em. I've tried to reach the Newsman twice; he's not answering his phone."

"He's probably taking a bereavement day," Kermit observed. "I imagine there's a funeral he has to attend soon."

"Yeah," Scooter said, sobering. "Uh, about that other thing, Chief..." Lowering his voice and glancing around, the gofer continued, "I still can't get hold of Big Mama or Timmy or Gene or Beautiful Day...although there was a message from Carl earlier; said he was nursing a sick friend."

Kermit made a wry face. "Yeah, sure. In other words –"

"He's hungover again," Scooter agreed, sighing. "Anyway, I'm not sure what to think about that monsters-underground thing. The Mutations are here, and they seem fine. And Sweetums and Thog were playing Bataan Checkers in the green room a minute ago, and Boppity's here, and the bats showed up for their dance rehearsal..."

Kermit shook his head. "I'm not sure _what_ to think. I guess we go on as usual...just let me know if any of the monsters show up acting suspiciously, okay?"

"Okay!" Scooter paused. "Uh...how would that be different from how they _usually_ act?"

Kermit scrunched his mouth up. "I don't know – just – suspicious! Weirder than normal!" He sighed, trying to untense his shoulders. "Is there any coffee left?"

"Uh, yeah, but I don't think you're gonna want any..."

"Why not?"

A large herring came flopping across the backstage floor, panting desperately; hot on its fins ran the Chef, waving a cleaver in one hand and carrying an old-fashioned metal kettle in the other. "Hoo! Geddendere, yuu pishy-wishy coopasheeno!" The chase swerved upstairs and through a starred door; a moment later, frog and gofer cringed at the shriek and crash which followed.

"Gotcha," Kermit sighed. He checked the clock. "I think I have just enough time to slip around front for a real cup. Cover for me?"

"You bet," Scooter agreed. His froggy boss hopped out the back door, heading for the local coffee cart. "Hey Chief, it's cold, don't forget to take your..." Realizing Kermit was gone, a worried Scooter hurried down the steps after him. He threw open the back door to find a frogsicle on the loading dock. Hastily dragging him back in and rubbing his shoulders briskly, Scooter muttered, "...coat. Hey Boss, why don't you sit here under the vent and I'll go grab you a coffee, okay? You want a little cup of Frosted Flies on the side today?"

"Brrrrrr," Kermit groaned, shuddering. He huddled beneath the warm air coming from the heating vent, and nodded. He couldn't even get the word _thanks_ out before his trusty assistant was bounding out the door, snapping up his own letter jacket as he went. _That kid's too nice to be in show biz,_ Kermit thought, then smiled at his own condescension. _Except he's hardly a kid anymore! Married, with a place of his own, and a college degree..._ He shook his head, slowly returning to room temperature. _Still has the energy of a child, though. Speaking of..._ He smiled at the small frog climbing onto his desk and waving a paper half-mask on a stick.

"Booooo! Boooo _oooo!_ Hey Uncle Kermit, guess who I am?"

"A very excited frog?" Kermit guessed.

"Awww...no, I'm the Phantom! Wooooooo!" Robin moaned, trying to undulate his flippers in a menacing way.

"Excited about tomorrow night?" Kermit felt something uneasy poking at the back of his mind, something Robin's mask had triggered, but his chilled brain was too out of whack yet to nail down what it was. Robin hopped up and down in place, and the nagging something vanished from Kermit's mind.

"Oh you bet! Uncle Kermit...Rizzo and Pepe said this place we're gonna go is a real haunted house! Is that true?" Robin asked nervously.

"Robin, there's no such thing...and even if there is, all of us are going too! The Mayhem will all be there, and Miss Piggy and I will walk with you, and Bunsen and Beaker will be filming it all for us..."

"Are you sure they know how?"

Kermit chuckled, making a wry face. "I certainly hope so! Remember to wear your special t-shirt, okay?"

"I will! Hey, does this mean I can have a part in the movie too?"

Kermit hesitated. "Well, I don't know, Robin. Your parents still aren't sure that a horror movie is appropriate for a young frog to take part in..."

Robin made an unhappy tadpole face, bulging out his mouth in a pout so that his eyes seemed to pop up. Kermit tried his best to hold in a chortle at that. "Awwww...but you said it won't be scary, it'll be funny!"

"There will be just enough scare for the audience to sympathize with _moi,_ the lady in distress," Piggy assured the young frog as she came down the stairs. "At least, in distress until _moi_ turns her considerable skill at kicking _tuchis_ on, and then it's pig versus zombies! Oh, and Kermie?" She sashayed sweetly up to him; Kermit pursed his lips, expecting a kiss; instead, she dusted her gloves off in his face. A shimmer of red scales fluttered onto his nose, and Kermit sputtered and spat. "Keep the danged aquatic life out of _moi's_ dressing room or it will be Fish Fry _Sunday!"_

"Hey, that wasn't very nice!" Lew Zealand protested, and chased after the limping fish while the Chef came slowly downstairs, looking dejected, with his cleaver embedded in his toque. Robin giggled. Kermit shook off the remaining scales and pulled Piggy in close for a smooch.

She allowed it, and even returned the pressing of lips a moment, then broke away and headed for the green room stairs. "Ta, _mon cher_ – _moi_ must get a honey tea for her throat! This place is so _cold_ today...brrrr!"

"Yeah," Robin agreed. "It's like the whole theatre is a cold spot, like on that spook hunter show! Gotta go put my costume on for the trick-or-treat song, Uncle Kermit. See ya!"

Kermit frowned, looking up into the flyloft, but could barely see any of the ropes suspending the scenery and electrical battens, much less into the dark recesses of the grid. _Spooks...I wonder why Uncle Deadly hasn't insisted we feature him this weekend? Halloween is tomorrow, and I would've thought he'd jump at the chance to do some corny recital of Poe or Bierce or something...come to think of it, where is that non-pig ham, anyway?_ He would have given this more thought, but just then Scooter returned with a large paper cup of absolutely amazing-smelling caramel apple coffee paired with Frosted Flies heated in a little cup with mealworm milk, and Kermit's stomach growled, and he set about making sure he devoured every bit of the late breakfast before the matinee began.


	52. Chapter 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE. _In which Rhonda rallies the troops; the Martians make a dramatic entrance; and Gina's day gets even worse._

The place they dumped her in was cramped and stank of unwashed fur and other things less appetizing. Rhonda crouched in a corner, shivering. When the chuckling monster left, she finally took a shuddering breath, then wrinkled her nose. "Aw, gawd...what is this, the back room at the _Post?"_ Suddenly she realized she wasn't alone; numerous pairs of eyes glowed all around her, reflected in the faint light from a bare bulb high overhead. "Oh no. Ah, listen, monstery guys, I'm with the Fourth Estate, ya know? Press? I can get ya into a show, if you...oh geez..." She pressed her back into the hard corner of the box, seeing the eyes closing in, creeping from the shadows...until they were close enough for the meager light to reveal their forms. Rhonda blew out a breath, relaxing. "Oh for crying out loud! You guys sure know how to give a warm welcome!"

The multitude of rats blinked, sniffed, or regarded her with mild curiosity. "You have an estate? Cool," one said.

Another snorted. "Fat lotta good that does down here!"

She stared at them; there must have been three or four dozen rats all packed into what, on closer inspection, seemed to be a storage freezer; at least it had no lid and wasn't working, though the air down here was cold enough to make a chiller unnecessary. She peered up at the top of the oblong box: thin chickenwire had been loosely laid over the opening. "Are you telling me none of you have tried getting out of _that_ flimsy thing yet?"

A big, burly rat who looked vaguely familiar shrugged. "Dat's ten-gage wire, sweetheart. Even _if_ we chew t'roo it, it's two feet up, two feet down on da udder side, an' den nine feet to da door..."

"Dat's eleven feet," another rat piped up.

"Thirteen," Rhonda muttered, disgusted.

The big rat shrugged, and pulled a piece of dry wheat out of the rolled-up sleeve of his plain white t-shirt, gnawing on it vaguely. "Eh, anyways, dey got big bruisers right outside da door. An' believe me, sweetie, ya don't wanna know what dey considdah a light snack!"

The rest of the rats shook their heads and chorused "un-uhs!" all around. Rhonda fumed, brushing back her mussed hair and beginning a thorough search of the box using the flashlight she'd brought from Newsie's apartment. "There _has_ to be a way outta here!" Struck by a thought, she whirled, eyes flicking from rat to rat. "Are any of you guys from the tunnels? Got dragged off the streets, stuff like that?"

Several nodded. "Well, sure," one said, with an indignant sniff. "Ya think we _wanted_ ta get stuck in dis nasty ol' fridge widdout even no _food_ left in it?"

"Then get your butts in gear and _help me!"_ she snapped. She shone the light into one corner, where the hardware which used to hold a shelf remained, though rusted. "Use those ledges! Form a chain! Big guys on the bottom! You, Bubba, you be the anchor!" she ordered, remembering the burly rat's name finally.

He blinked at her dumbly. "Uh...lissen, no offense, sweetheart, but..."

"I am _nobody's_ sweetheart," she barked. "Do you _want_ to just sit here until some giant furry moron comes for a _snack?_ I have already lost a good man out there this morning, and there's a _lot_ of _important_ work to do and the sooner the better!" She glared around at the sheepish-looking rodents; none of them except Bubba would even meet her eyes. "Does anyone have a cell phone? They took mine, the creeps...probably getting slime all over it as we speak, and I don't even wanna _know_ what they've done to my Ratbook page..."

One of the smaller rats ventured shyly, "Uh...they started taking everyone's stuff away after they caught Alec playing 'Crumbs With Friends.'"

"Great," Rhonda muttered. She put her paws on her hips, jutting her dainty snout at Bubba. "Well? Are you gonna give a rat a hand up, or are you just a big wuss?" When he just stared at her, and several others gasped audibly, she glared at them all again. "Oh come on! We are _rats,_ people! We have persevered through plagues, grain famines, involuntary sea voyages, and the whole 'ratcessory' thing after Britney adopted a Scotch Longfur! We can do this! We can take them! We are strong, we are invincible –"

"We aaare roooooodents," another female rat suddenly burst into song. She looked abashed when the others turned to stare at her.

"That's right, sister," Rhonda nodded firmly. "We are _rats!_ Now listen up! Those freaks are planning on taking over the whole city – _our_ city! If they do that, no rodent will ever be allowed to run free in the Lower East Side, eating electrical insulation and the best Chinese food in the world, ever again!" Seeing some of them considering that unhappily, she pressed on. "No rat will ever be able to raid the Mayor's larder, or...or infest an entire used-mattress store...or buy the newest cute little walking shorts the garment district has to offer ever again!"

They were silent, whiskers twitching uncertainly. The rat who'd done such a perfect Helen Reddy spoke up, "Ummm...I think that last one may just be you and me, girl."

"Heathens," Rhonda snorted. "But don't you guys _see?_ This isn't just about what the monsters will do to the careless idiots walking around up there—this affects _us_ directly! _What_ city is this again?" she demanded suddenly, accosting a jaded-seeming rat in the front row.

Startled, he stepped back, then glared at her. "New Yawk!"

"And _who_ was here before buildings even covered all of Manhattan?"

Another rat moved forward, his voice raspy but firm. "We were!"

"And who _really_ runs this town, I ask ya?" Rhonda yelled.

A chorus – small, tentative, but a chorus nonetheless – answered, "We do."

"What was that?"

"We do!"

 _"Who_ does?"

 _"We do!"_ most of them roared. Excitement swept through the stale, dingy freezer. Rhonda looked at each of them, making sure to hold eye contact as her gaze traveled around.

"That's froggin' _right,_ it's our town!" She lifted her flashlight, doing an unintentional impression of Lady Liberty. _"For the rats of New York City!"_

A loud cheer reverberated off the plastic-coated walls. "Now let's get up there and save our city!" Rhonda yelled. Rats scrambled and climbed, hoisting one another up the moldy walls. Rhonda noticed Bubba was still standing there, his big eyes narrowed at her. "Well?" she snapped.

He gave her a slow nod. "Ya know, dat's a shame," he rumbled.

"What is?"

"Dat ya ain't nobody's sweetheart," he said, giving her a very direct look. Rhonda felt her face reddening, and wished she hadn't discarded her coat, conscious of her not-yet-grown-back fur. Her legs showed too much from under this dress. With a lopsided grin, Bubba ambled toward the corner of the freezer, and grabbed the feet of one rat struggling to reach the first ledge, hefting him into the air so fast the rat squeaked in startlement. "Awright, come on, get up dere, who's next?"

Rhonda smoothed down her bangs, feeling both complimented and annoyed. Mustering up her resolve once more, she strode over to the wriggling chain of rodents and held out a paw. "Okay, guys, once we get to the top –"

"It's two feet down, and eleven to da door," one of the rats chimed in.

"Nine," someone else muttered.

"So everybody look sharp, and scatter if the guards see ya! They can't stop all of us! We will prevail through sheer numbers – like we always have!" she urged them. Caught up in the squirming, upward-climbing mass, she swallowed back a twinge of fear. _No, they can't stop us all...but the ones they DO catch won't have it easy..._ Hoping desperately that she wouldn't be one of the inevitable casualties in this war, she scrambled over the top and into no-rat's-land.

The Newsman peered uncertainly around the corner; two Frackles and some sort of giant glob with a multitude of tiny, useless arms quivering from its bulbous sides were engaged in a heated argument just down the next corridor. He was close enough to hear them clearly, though he didn't comprehend a word of it:

"The _Millennium Falcon_ could _so_ blow _Serenity_ out of the sky! It has guns!"

"So? Wash can outfly any pilot in the 'verse!"

"Dude, Wash is _dead."_

"Don't remind me! Ugh! I hated that scene!"

"How do we get past them?" Newsie muttered. His ghostly companion sighed, flourished his cloak ahead of him with one elegant arm, and simply strode around the corner; before Newsie could react, the dragon grabbed Newsie's costumed wing-arm and dragged him after.

"Good gloomy day to you, my fellow miscreants! Er...which way to the cells? I found this foolish bird wandering a little too close to the tunnel entry, heh heh heh..." Deadly beamed at them toothily; the monsters froze, wide googly eyes and dropped jaws turned their way.

"Er...say...ain't you s'posed to be locked up too?" a yellow Frackle with red wattles asked.

"I? Shackled like a common ox? I should say not!" Deadly drew himself on tiptoe haughtily. "Your overlord and I came to an agreement: I bring in the spook vote, and he gives me the Museum."

"Oh," the chickenlike Frackle pondered.

The blue one nodded. "Uh, yeah, uh...don't you mean da _under_ lord?"

"Yeahhh..." the blob mused, regarding the dragon suspiciously, but Deadly immediately lunged at them, releasing Newsie in order to rake both clawed hands in the air before the cringing trio's snouts.

"You _dare_ blaspheme he-who-must-be-given-all-manner-of-slimy-snacks?" Deadly roared. "How _dare_ you uncouth, uncultured, microcephalic _heathens_ even _speak_ his title as though you know him _personally! I_ do," he finished, his voice dropping from dramatic bombast to name-dropping chattiness. "Now, I will ask you a _second_ time, and if there's a _third_ my good chum His Nastiness shall hear about it: _where_ are the cells?"

All three monsters dumbly pointed farther down the rocky hallway.

"Thank you." Deadly grabbed Newsie by the nape of the costume. "Come along now, we'll find a _lovely_ cage for you! Mwoooaaahh ha ha ha ha ha!"

The monsters, silent, shuffled aside to let them pass. When they'd moved out of range of curious eyes and ears and who knows what other senses, Newsie pulled free of Deadly's cold grip a little and muttered grudgingly, "Good laugh."

"Thank you. One must _perfect_ such things, you know."

The cells quickly came into view...and Newsie felt cold and more than a little ill. In tiny, barren cage after cage of the prison level, he saw bedraggled humans, dogs, cats, squirrels, a shorn sheep and what looked like a walrus with a fez. The corridor ended at a t-intersection; looking left and right, Newsie could barely make out more cells. They seemed endless. "Holy frog, how big _is_ this place?" he wondered, desperate to find Gina; his heart went out to all the sad souls he passed as Deadly led him imperiously on, but what on earth could he do for them? All the barred doors appeared locked. Did one of those monsters back there have the keys? Was there a master control switch somewhere he could throw to open _all_ the cells?

"A sad sight, is it not?" Deadly murmured to him, choosing the right-hand turn and walking slowly along it, his gaze drifting over the listless prisoners. Nobody even looked up at them as they passed. "It reminds me of a production I once starred in of _'Don Juan,'_ in particular the Doge's dungeon scene...no, of course you wouldn't have seen it, you're too young...well, let me tell you, it was a marvelous set! They'd built me the dingiest-looking cell – fake chains, of course, although I _did_ ask for real ones, liked to do all my own stunts, you see; this was before your modern 'action heroes' but right in line with Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd and—"

"We can't just let all these people waste away down here!" Newsie hissed, trying once again to grab Deadly's sleeve, irritated that the ghost could touch _him,_ yet his hand went right through the spectral arm. "The monsters undoubtedly have something awful in store for every one of them!"

Deadly turned to glare directly at him; he couldn't keep back a shiver at that chilling green gaze, glowing eyes more like chemical sparks than windows to a soul. "And just what do you propose we do, exactly, foolish Muppet? Are you gifted with the strength to bend the bars?"

"No," Newsie snapped. "But –"

"Then we continue on until we find your dark and temper-prone lady, and determine some way to free her. Perhaps I could convince them you should be put in her cell, and when they open the door..." Deadly mused.

"Yes, good," Newsie agreed at once. "But what about the rest of these poor people? And...and...things," he continued awkwardly, seeing what looked like a whitish glob in a tiny glass box in one of the cells; it was feebly trying to separate and clone more of itself, but seemed too weak to manage more than a few puffs of spores. "We...we can't just leave them!"

"I shall have to have a _very_ stern chat with this underlord fellow," Deadly growled. He strode on, not noticing the Newsman hanging back a moment in utter disbelief.

"You – a stern _chat?_ How is _that_ going to help? These weirdos are clearly unwilling to listen to compassion, or reason at all for that matter!"

"The megalomaniac is breaking every rule of monsterdom! He must be brought to account!"

"Right," Newsie said, catching up, continuing to scan left and right for any sign of Gina. "I'm sure he'll listen to _you."_

"I am utterly charming, and an expert dancer," Deadly sniffed. "Of course he will. I just have to get past all this techno-scary nonsense first and speak directly to him...peer behind the curtain, so to speak."

"You're not making any sense," Newsie muttered.

"Trust me, fussy reporter, it will _all_ come out in the wash. Have I led you wrong so far?" Deadly demanded. A pink raggy thing and a blue raggy thing suddenly dropped on him from above. "Aaaagh!"

Newsie staggered back a step, startled, and his jaw dropped when the two freakish things that had menaced his aunt flung their tentacles around the dragon's head, their bobbing antennae jutted down and they delivered a bright charge of static that made even the ghost jitter and flop in place. "Bad! Bad cow!" the blue one groaned, shaken up and down in the same shock.

"Bad bad bad! Yiiiiip yip yip yip yip!" the pink one chimed in.

"Arrrgh! Let _go_ of me, you twisted little mop-brains! Get – _off!"_ Deadly managed to get his claws on one of them, flinging it into the retaining wall between two cells; the other had its tentacles wrapped around his face, blinding him temporarily. It rubbed its deely-bobbers together rapidly again and gave him another shock. _"Aaagh! All right_ that is quite _enough_ of that!" he roared, and with a violent shake of his head loosened it enough to grab it and hurl it away. Deadly snarled, raising both hands, about to deliver some turnabout-is-fair-play on the little creatures, when the pink one yanked its jaw over its entire head, or body (hard to tell with them), and the blue one shouted something that made him pause:

"You hurt News! Aaaww! Bad! Bad cow! Yip yip yip bad!"

"I hurt _what?"_ Deadly glared from one of the things to the other; they scrambled and flopped together in the center of the corridor, then wobbled and wavered and levitated up to stare at him eye-to-eye. "What the bloody James Earl Jones are you talking about? I only _play_ a villain! And quite well, admittedly, but _really_ now..."

Pink glanced at Blue. "Awww. _Not_ bad cow? Not...hurt News?"

"Bad cow hurt Eth-el," Blue reminded him.

Pink shook his head. "Uh-uh-uh-uh. This not cow. Chick-en," he said, indicating Deadly with a couple of tentacles.

Affronted, Deadly gave that one a poke with a claw. "I am _not_ a chicken! _I_ am the revered master thespian and part-time Phantom, Uncle Deadly! Now just what are you two playing at, attacking a spook on a mission?" They looked abashed, raising their jaws up to their eyeballs, antennae drooping. Satisfied that he'd made them stop and think, at least, Deadly continued his berating in full Olivier mode. "Why, I'll have you little cleaning supplies know, I am even now engaged in stopping the unholy tyranny which has pervaded the whole undercity for nigh-on a month at least, with the help of my trusty-if-a-little-dimwitted-comic-sidekick, that Newsmuppet..." He turned to include Newsie in a grand gesture, but the raven-costumed reporter was nowhere to be seen. "Er...Newsboy?" He peered into the nearest cells; the raggy creatures looked high and low as well. "How very odd, he was just here..."

"Mn. News...run," observed Pink.

"Eh-eh eh-eh," objected Blue. "Not News."

"Aaaww?"

"Chick-en," Blue said firmly, and refused to hear another word about cows.

Rosie McGurk approached the noisy cell tentatively; he ducked when a squishy rubber eyeball on a keychain sailed into the corridor through the bars, bouncing twice on the floor. "Uhhh...wabba do, Gazza?" Various garden tools, torn sequined shorts, and an "I 8 NY" snowglobe with a monster attacking the city inside it flew threw the air to land haphazardly everywhere.

The curly-nosed daredevil poked his head through the bars. "Oh! Hey! Rosie! Great, you're just in time!" He squeezed easily between the iron bars, but found his suitcase wouldn't fit. He yanked on the handle a couple of times, grunting, then paused, wiping his feathery brow. "Uh, little help?"

Rosie blinked all three eyes at him. "Wabba do?"

Gonzo gestured at the two large steamer trunks and rolling suitcase. "Almost time to go! I figured it made sense to go ahead and get packed, y'know, so I won't be running around later like a chick...er...like someone who doesn't plan ahead." He beamed at his monstrous assistant. "Boy, last night was amazing, wasn't it?"

"Yagga," Rosie agreed; he stood there while Gonzo popped back into his cell and flung one of the trunks open, then began stuffing oil-coated hoops, sparklers, and various other flammable implements into it. "Uh...saygga ta pag en alla togebba?"

"Well, sheesh! You want me to pack fireworks and class-A explosives in with my _clothes?_ Do I look _crazy?"_ Gonzo stared at Rosie; Rosie stared back. Today the Whatever had his green leotard on under a pair of orange plaid slacks; an official _'Break a Leg'_ ballcap covered his head.

"Uhhhh..." Rosie mumbled.

"Boy, one more gig tonight to claim my prize, and then it's off to claim my feathery little minx once and for all, Rosie!" Excited, Gonzo bustled around the tiny cell, continuing to pack more belongings than Rosie recalled him arriving with.

"Ahh, Gazza...neeba stay tamarrah," Rosie reminded him timidly.

"Tomorrow? Why, what's – oh yeah. That big opening-the-door-to-heck ceremony, right."

"Ack!" Rosie put a startled pink paw to his wide toothy mouth. _Where the hey had Gonzo heard about that?_ "Uh... _wagga_ heggate shamony?"

Back into the corridor in a flash, Gonzo grinned, knocking his friend's shoulder gently with a fist. "Aw, come on, Rosie! I've heard some of the guys talking about it! I know you guys were trying to keep it a surprise for me, so I won't let on like I know, okay? I promise, when the head of the network opens a portal to a screaming dimension of ultimate horror, I'll look as shocked as anyone else!" Rosie stared slack-jawed at him. Gonzo looked at his trunks. "Hmm. D'ya think maybe we could borrow one of those cannon trundles? Oh, hey, that reminds me! Pew said I could have one of those cannons that got wrecked in our act; I'm pretty sure I can fix it up, but I'll need help dragging it up all those stairs...think you could..." He turned to see the expression of shock on Rosie's homely face, and grimaced. "Yeah, you're right. A little too much, huh? Okay...what if we asked one of your really big friends to help? I think I saw one of those giant centipedes in my cheering section last night – maybe he'd help us out if I gave him my personal autograph?"

"Erg," Rosie choked. Gonzo had already shimmied back through the bars and was jumping up and down on the trunk full of items the post office would never accept, trying to cram it all inside. Rosie wrung his furry hands. If only he _could_ get Gonzo out of here! He knew all too well that tonight's wrap-up and awards episode of _'Break a Leg'_ would be Gonzo's last hurrah...and last chance to be on a stage, anywhere, before the Grand Ascension tomorrow night, which the boss had specifically ordered the daredevil be present for... Swallowing down a flight of butterflies in his stomach (they never would stay put unless he remembered to wash them down with ginger ale, which he hadn't), Rosie glanced up and down the cell block. No other monsters were in earshot. What if...what if he could persuade Gonzo to leave _right now?_ No one would be expecting that! Everyone knew the final show was tonight, and of course Gonzo would be taking first place!

Steeling himself for the risk, Rosie stopped Gonzo on his next trip through the cell bars. "Gazza...uhhh...tagga minnin?"

"Uh, sure, Rosie, but you mind if I talk and pack? Got a lot to sort through here...hmm...hey, would you have any use for this pair of cod-liver-oil coated Speedos? I thought they were really cool, but they're a little big...might fit you, though..." Gonzo looked up with a smile, then saw the trembling lip and wide eyes of his hideously-featured friend. Chagrined, he stopped, and put a hand on McGurk's shoulder. "Oh...aw, Rosie, I'm so sorry! What an _idiot_ I am sometimes!" He shook his head. "Wow, talk about Mr Insensitive...look...you know what? Why don't you just come _with_ me?"

"Cabba wig?"

"Well, let's face it, there really won't be much talent around _here_ for you to fixate on once I'm gone," Gonzo said, lowering his voice. "I mean, c'mon, what're you gonna do, become a coffee gofer for Pew? Beneath your talents! I could _use_ an experienced assistant! I'm sure Kermit won't mind one more hideously deformed mouth to feed. You could sleep on the flyrail – though I'd have to ask you to give me and my chickie some space, if you get my drift," he continued, grinning and winking. "So, whaddaya say? Want to continue a career in show biz with a _real_ artiste?"

Rosie gaped at him, poleaxed, unable to reply. Concerned, Gonzo said, "Well, gee, um...I didn't realize you were so attached to things down here! I mean I'd love to have you along, especially if Camilla okays that tour of the corn belt I've always wanted to do, you know, take a little culture to the yokels, but if you're not up to it –"

Rosie was on the verge of regaining speech, of blurting out a warning or a thank-you or breaking down and bawling or perhaps all three at once, when a raspy voice broke in: "Hey!" Rosie nearly jumped out of his fake fur. "The scow's leavin'! Are you guys comin' or what?"

Gonzo blinked at an unusual sight: two Grouches lugging tagged suitcases bulging with dirty underwear, rotten banana peels, and spoiled suntan lotion came grumbling along the corridor. At the far end, in the garbage can for this cell block, a green-furred Grouch waited impatiently. "Come on, come on, I ain't got all day!" he growled at the two laggards. All three of them appeared vaguely familiar to Gonzo.

"Hey, aren't you guys the ones who vetted the acts for my show?" he asked the two Grouches as they passed.

"Grrrrr!" snarled a grayish, elder Grouch with white hair sticking out from the sides of his head and a moldy tie. Rosie scrunched back against the wall to let the mean-looking creatures by; both of them glared at him anyway.

"What's it to you, turkeybeak?" the other passing Grouch snapped at Gonzo.

"Aren't you going to see the finale tonight?" Gonzo asked.

"I'd rather not! Heh heh heh!"

"And _I'd_ rather you two stopped chatting with the local color and got a move on!" the green Grouch yelled from the end of the hall. "We gotta amscray if we wanna catch the last barge out! C'mon!"

"Grrrrr!" the gray Grouch replied, giving his broken-wheeled suitcase a vicious tug. It burst open, spilling coffee grounds, rotten lettuce, and black, cankerous popcorn kernels all over the corridor floor.

"Oh fer cryin' out loud, Cranky...didn't I tell you they'll have snacks on the boat? Leave 'em...they look better there anyway! Heh heh heh..."

Gonzo, curious, trotted ahead of the traveling Grouches to the one in the trash can. "Are you three really leaving the city? But you'll miss the big party tomorrow! There's gonna be a doorway to heck opened and they'll have cake and ice cream and everything!"

The green Grouch eyed him morosely. "Tell me about it! Why d'ya think we're headin' outta town, short, blue and weird-looking? No Grouch wants to be here when that jazz goes down! Hopefully..." He appeared uneasy. "Ahh, it can't possibly last too much longer! Whoever heard of monsters all cooperatin' – outside of _my_ neighborhood, anyways! This'll blow over, and when it all falls apart, we'll be back to pick up the pieces...and arrange them artfully into the biggest trash crisis this city's ever seen! Heh, heh, right, Dan?"

"I'd rather not!" grumped the dirty-tan-furred Grouch as he threw his suitcase down the trash can, forcing the green Grouch to duck.

"Hey, watch where you're tossin' things! You coulda hit my stash of rotten eggs!" The green Grouch smiled smugly as he shifted over to allow the tan one who seemed only to want to be contrary to climb in and vanish. "Eh, can't blame him for being all excited! After all, they say Rio is lovely this time a'year!"

"How are you getting all the way to Rio?" Gonzo wondered. "Is it true there are wormholes in Grouchland?"

"I'll say!"

"Grrrrr!" agreed the gray Grouch, clambering in over the green one; much shoving and arguing ensued before the gray one vanished down the hole. Picking up the topic again, the green one assured Gonzo, "Heck, we got roach-holes and vermin-holes too, not just worms – although the worms make the cutest ones, 'least _I_ think so...nah, we're taking a chartered garbage scow down. Did you know Brazil has more trash per capita than most of the rest of the world combined? Heaven!" He shook his head, a dreamy smile on his grungy face. Brightening, he looked at Gonzo and Rosie again. "Sayyy...you guys wanna come with? We could, ah, sell ya a broken sink or a used toilet to bunk in on the trip down – only twenty bucks! Each!"

"Mebba...errr..." Rosie began, seriously considering the offer. Everyone knew you had to have a Grouch guide to navigate the tunnels through trash to Grouchland, and these might be the last Grouches remaining in the city at this point...and, well, Rio couldn't be too bad...he might have to shave his fur again, he'd never been comfortable with the heat –

Gonzo ruined any such feeble musing with a firm shake of his head. "No way José! I have a trophy to claim tonight, and a chicken waiting for me at home after that! Oh, well, and there's this party thing tomorrow, but frankly it sounds kinda formal...I'm only going if Camilla can get my tux pressed in time..."

"Suit yourself! So long, suckers! Heh heh heh! Yeah, yeah, stop complainin', you guys, I already blackmailed that Cooper kid inta coverin' for you while we're gone...hey, wait up!" Yelling down the hole, the green Grouch slammed the trashcan lid; it echoed through the corridors. Panicking, Rosie leaped forward and yanked open the lid; the refuse from last night's studio bash spilled out. He pulled forth empty bottles and tattered streamers and somebody's undershirt, but there seemed no evidence a tunnel had ever been there. He stared at the aluminum container in despair.

Gonzo patted him on the back. "Uh...hey, Rosie, honestly...if it's moldy popcorn you want, I'm pretty sure I saw some back at your cafeteria! Why don't we go see if they have any?" His eyes became misty. "Geez. I'm really gonna miss you, buddy! Sure you won't reconsider about coming back to the theatre with me?"

Rosie opened his mouth, determined to say once and for all everything he'd been forced to keep secret, everything he wanted to warn the clueless Whatever about, and – Eustace swung around the corner. "Eep," Rosie gulped.

"What issss all thisss messss?" the doglizard demanded.

"Oh...uh, there were these two Grouches walking past the bars, and they were going to Rio, and –" Gonzo began, gesturing at the trash scattered along the floor.

Eustace growled. "I have no time for ssstupid jokessss! Why are you packing? Do you not wisssh to disssplay your propsss one lassst time on the air?"

Gonzo shrugged. Rosie did his best to be invisible, standing just behind Gonzo, although he was taller by an eyeball. "Actually, I thought I'd just do a song and dance tonight, if that's okay. I'm kinda bushed. Hey, where do you guys keep the pay phone around here? I'd really, really like to call my girlfriend!" When Eustace only glared at him, grinding his teeth, Gonzo amended, "Uh...you know...if your boss wants me at his grand descent thing tomorrow, won't I need her to bring my tux? The only one I have with me is the rainbow-spangled one, and I kinda had the impression you guys were going for more of a Halloween theme...I _do_ have a neon orange cummerbund and tie I can wear..."

Slowly, the doglizard smiled. "Your...girlfriend. Isss sssshe not...Camilla the sssshicken?"

"Well, yeah!" Gonzo's eyes lit up. "Hey, you've heard of her?" Excitedly he nudged Rosie, who sucked in a startled yelp. "I _told_ you she was the most famous waterskiing fowl _ever! Hah!"_

"Sssshe isss on our... _guessst_ lissst already," Eustace hissed, toothy lips curling up in a mean smile. "Sssshe hasss ssssigned up to walk the charity haunted housssse event where our underlor—er, our _network head_ isss holding hisss...party."

"Oh, fantastic!" Gonzo cried. "Wow, this is so perfect! It's _kismet!_ Perfect serendipity! Hey, uh, so..." He took the surprised doglizard by the shoulder, and muttered in some embarrassment, "I've actually never been to one of these things before...what _is_ the dress code for opening a doorway to a dimension of hellacious monster bugs?"

Rosie made a strangled sound, but Gonzo didn't hear, and Eustace happily ignored.

Gina blinked groggily; no sooner did awareness seep back in but she realized, _Those little creeps drugged me. I'm going to kill them all._ She was given a further shock when she managed to rub her vision clear, and saw the outfit she was now wearing. "What the—" A slew of choicely flung profanity still couldn't adequately express her feelings upon seeing the frilly pink babydoll dress, the white tights and maryjane shoes, and the bejeweled barrettes in her hair. The image the mirror on one wall of this closet-sized space conveyed was herself dollied up like something out of a Shirley Temple film. Furious, Gina stood up from the padded floor and began examining the walls. A chain clinked; looking down, she nearly lost all composure completely. _They drugged me, they took OFF my clothes and put me in this disgusting outfit, and they CHAINED MY FEET?_ She stood a moment, trying to calm her heart, starting to hyperventilate. _No! Oh no no no no no no..._

Suddenly a slimy sort of voice sounded overhead; looking up, she could see only a ganglion of wires and hoses. "Toonaaaht, our swinging, swaying bashelorr weel have to choose again, between zee _bad_ and ze _uglai_ , and who knows whezair _eezair_ uf zem are _good!_ Coming raaht up, on _'I Married a Monstair!'"_

 _What the $ %?_ Gina thought, desperately tugging at the manacles on both her ankles; they seemed heavy, rusty, and possibly unable to even be unlocked again. She pulled hard, hurting her feet, not caring, beginning to panic, but she couldn't squeeze free of the chains. She turned from one tall wall to the next, frantically seeking escape; suddenly one wall shot upward, hoisted into the high ceiling, revealing bright lights trained on her. She flung her hands over her face, holding in a cry of fear. _Oh god what the **** are they doing, what are they doing to me, oh my god Newsie, Newsie where are you –_

"That's raaht, mah fellow drooling monstairs, you see before you ze _epitome_ of deeesgusting feminine frilliness – but at least it is still feminine, which is all zat counts, _non?"_ A chortle followed this pronouncement. Squinting, desperate to figure out what the situation was and how she might get out of it, Gina finally discerned the figure of some sort of shambling creature in a shabby pirate's hat parading up and down a few feet in front of the weird little open closet.

"Hey! Beaky pruneface! Unlock me right the **** now or I will stuff that stupid hat right up your fat nostril!" she yelled, but far from being intimidated, the pirate creature sauntered closer and gave her a lecherous look.

"Why hellooo mah pet! Do you like your frilly little dress, _ma petite chou?"_

"No I do _not!"_ Gina snarled, ripping the barrettes from her hair and flinging them at the creature's face; they bounced off a pair of Ray-Bans, and the thing chortled again.

"Wha-ha-hah! A feisty one, no? But what do _you_ sink, Gustar?"

Gina clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. The undulating blob which hove into view was like a '50s horror flick met Jabba the Hut and had offspring...which were then devoured by _this_ thing. It peered at her with a multitude of watery eyes, in particular staring at her legs. She tried to pull the skimpy frills down farther, but this outfit really hid nothing. "Huuh...well...she's kind of... _plain,_ Pew..." the blob muttered out of the side of its mouths.

"Ah know, _mon ami,_ but not to fret! Because once again, we have a special visit froooom...ze _Doctair Monstrufyer!"_

Applause greeted this statement. Gina backed against the mirrored wall, but suddenly all the walls around her fell away, simple flats, and more lights came up...and she clearly saw the lush, designer-decor bachelor pad set, the beaming skinny Muppet in a lab coat with a big felt heart pinned to one lapel, and the apparatus of syringes and hoses slowly lowering over her. "Oh god no," she whispered, but there was no way to run, no way to kick, and though she ducked and tried to dodge the needles swooping down at her, they kept coming.

"Just simmer down, you poor ugly thing," the lab-coated Muppet crooned, to the laughter of the audience. "Good ol' Doc Van Neuter is going to make everything _allll_ better...or should I say, Doctor Feelbad?"

He giggled. Gina lunged to one side and the other, but felt a jab in her left arm. Crying out, she instinctively slapped at it, but then another sharp poke hit her upper right thigh. As she sank to the floor, crying, she felt something even worse: a _rippling_ feeling all over her skin.

"Can you do purple this time?" the blob was asking. "But...I kinda like the red fur...it's exotic, ya know?"

Van Neuter grinned. "Sure, babyjelly! I can do _anything_ you want!"

That horrible smile was the last thing she saw before losing consciousness again.


	53. Chapter 46

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX. _In which the final results are revealed on BREAK A LEG; and Carl mocks a crush._

Just out of the lights on the rebuilt-yet-again platform, Snookie Blyer took a deep breath, straightened his plaid sports coat over his thin frame, and told himself, _Last time. Last time ever for this particular little slice of heck._ He glanced over at the judges' table, where Behemoth and Beautiful Day were busy throwing Shakey Sanchez back and forth, playing a game of keep-away with Gorgon Heap in the middle as the returning guest judge. He supposed all of them were as keyed-up as he was, although he was sure their own emotions ranged more toward _excited_ and not so much _nauseous_ or _terrified._ His eyes darted to the surging, snarling crowd; it was crawling-room-only tonight, with every inch of the nailed-back-together bleachers filled to creaking capacity. Snookie fully expected the risers to collapse again...not that such expectations bothered the audience, apparently. They'd been promised a reunion of all the contestants and a final winner; Snookie was fairly sure he knew who'd come out on top of this sordid little trash-heap, but he wondered how the frog it would even be _possible_ to reconstruct any of the departed daredevils as easily as they'd slapped together the bleachers. _Probably best not to even think about it._

He saw Carl, the Big Mean Fan in the front row again, still rooting for the sheepfighter despite his elimination _(in more senses of the word than one,_ Snookie thought with a shudder). Carl couldn't see him at the moment, which was at least a small relief. The fact that Snookie had spent all afternoon sleeping in a pie crust _without_ becoming something savory _or_ sweet was unheard-of, and frankly the whole thing was weirding him out. _Maybe he didn't get around to eating me because he was...full,_ he suggested to himself, then shook his head. _Are you kidding? Since when is that greedy-guts EVER full? What the frog exactly is he playing at?_ He jumped when Pew yelled right behind him.

"Thirteh zeconds! We are live in twenty-nine, twenty-seven...oh, ze heck with zis, _whair_ is mah caffeh!"

Staying well clear of the lurching director as he roamed in search of the perfect cup, Snookie slicked back his hair one last time (Carl offering to grease it with some Grisko earlier was unnerving only because he _didn't_ seem interested in immediately plunging Snookie into the frying pan afterward), steeled himself, and stepped out into the light. "Ladies and gentlemen – oh who are we kidding – nasties, beasties, ghoulies and freaks, and Jonny Coyne!" he shouted over the roar which greeted his appearance. Pew had mentioned some celebrity fans the show apparently had following them on Oblitter (some sort of torture-fetish social media thing), and asked Snookie to mention a few of them by name in tonight's broadcast. Giving the camera his best strained smile, Snookie continued, "Because _none_ of you asked for it: a contestant _reunion_ , just for _you_ the fans – you know who you are, and I hope you're all _deeply_ ashamed of yourselves! Followed by the moment we're all awaiting anxiously so we can _finally_ stop this trainwreck – the announcement of the season winner! That's all _tonight,_ right here, right now or as soon as we indulge the truly scary corporations who give us money to do this, on _Break a Leg!"_

The audience roared, and the show immediately went to commercial break. Snookie found himself panting lightly, and forced himself to keep smiling. "Almost over," he muttered to himself, grabbing a bottle of water which seemed a little more gray than usual and swigging it anyway.

Overhearing him, Pew grinned. "Zat's rrright! Oh, ah am so zorry, _mon frere –_ although ze show has been renewed for a zecond zeason, _you_ weel no longair be ze host! Ha ha ha ha!"

Snookie gave him a blank look. "See this? This is my _vastly disappointed_ face." He smoothed down his hair reflexively, then frowned and grabbed the director's arm. "Wait. Not that I _want_ the job, but why am I being replaced?"

Pew shrugged. "Oh, uh, ah am zure ah do not know! You weel have to speak to ze head of ze network!"

"No thanks," Snookie snapped. "It probably only means I'll be too busy with twenty other things!" He briefly considered all the tapings he'd missed today... _wait. Why didn't anyone complain? Why wasn't I dragged off anyway? Did Carl scare them all off?_ He shivered. If so, it could only mean that Carl had something even worse planned...suddenly he realized he still had to do the _'Monsters Tonight!'_ Halloween-night show tomorrow. Shuddering, Snookie glanced into the roiling crowd, once again seeing the huge gray-green creature with his shaggy arm around a huddling, nervous Whatnot's shoulders. She was wearing the fake horns and glasses again. Snookie glared at that. _Maybe she PREFERS the company of monsters! WHY did you stick your neck out for her again?_ Feeling betrayed, he tried to shake it off; it wasn't as though that was a new quality down here, after all. People sold one another out every day, sometimes two and three times over, in this monstervore's jungle, where the rule was eat _and_ be eaten...

Forcing himself to focus, Snookie plastered a strained smile on his mouth again as the cameras went live once more. "So, guys...do you wanna see something _really_ scary?" The crowd roared. "Well in that case, I give you...our contestants!"

The whole stage lit up, revealing small raised columns; each of them had a contestant perched atop them...though most looked a great deal less lively than they had the last time they appeared on the show. "Jimmy Joe Bob Fred Eb...oh, heck, just plug your ears, folks," Snookie grumbled, doing so himself. A dazed-looking tall Whatnot in overalls blinked at the audience, and then launched into a song...although only a muffled sort of warbling got past the face-hugging insectoid larva currently sucking on his head. However, the hillbilly's attempt at singing made the monster curl up its octopoid legs in alarm. It reared back, and Jimmy Joe Bob crooned, "Hoooome, hooome suuure is straaaange, where th' feeeear and th' cantelo—" The facehugger used its sucker-laden arms to slap him silly, and as the Whatnot's head lolled, the monster glommed itself back over his mouth and nose, sucking contentedly again.

"Artemis Kookulboofer!" That column seemed empty. Snookie consulted a cue card handed him by a stagefrackle. "Er...apparently Art has gone into the Game Show Contestant Relocation Program." He glared offstage at Pew. "We _have_ one of those? Is this a joke? Do they accept hosts?"

The director gestured randomly, then pointed at the laughing audience. Sighing, Snookie returned to the roll call. "Montrose the Mouse!" He glanced up, saw what was on _that_ column, shivered, and hurriedly moved on. "Er...Sylvester Stoatlone!"

Two legs sticking from under the wriggling, giant tuna shuffled atop a column, quickly losing their balance and toppling off. Muffled angry sounds came from inside the thrashing fish as it flopped on the stage floor. "Oooookay," Snookie murmured, moving on. "Roberto the Magnificent!" A very large alligator waved, then gestured like a foot model at the lovely feathered boots she was wearing. "Uh huh..." Snookie sighed. _Were any of the rest of them NOT eaten?_

He was surprised when he turned to another column and saw a vision in swirling silk. "Er...Jasmine Fatwah?" Then he saw why he or she was here: a very large troll stood right behind him or her with a large chain-leash fastened around the exotic dancer's neck. Snookie blanched. The bronze bikini and gauzy veils somehow didn't go with the bushy moustache...

"Grrrrabba magga blagga!" Rosie McGurk growled, turning purple with jealousy. He almost ran onstage, but a goblin grabbed his ankle, tripping him.

"Wyatt Slurp!" Snookie continued. A small spiral shell sat unmoving atop a pedestal. Snookie paused, but the shell didn't move at all. "Er...Wyatt, buddy, you in there?"

"Oooh, we should order more escargot tonight," Hem rumbled, saucer-eyes widening.

"Aaaaaah rabba zgagga!" Heap agreed, proceeding to eat his microphone.

"Philistine," B D growled. "At least put some garlic butter on it!"

"John Lamb!"

All that appeared on that column was a frilly paper garnish and a mostly-empty jar of mint sauce. A stagefrackle hurriedly ran over and deposited a pair of black woolen knitted socks next to it.

"Aw, maaaaan," Carl groaned. "They couldn't have at _least_ made a hat too? Now that's just _greedy!"_

"Mungus Mumfrey!" Snookie had to peer hard at the tiny thing glopping around in a tiny specimen jar; he hoped the camera was catching more of it in a close-up. "And finally...Gonzo the Great!"

Gonzo waved, basking in the cheers and violent applause. _This is spectacular! I'm at the top of my game! London Twenty-twelve arrhythmic darenastics, here I come! I just wish...I wish Camilla were right here accepting this accolade too...if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have..._ Feeling mushy, Gonzo sucked in a breath, and made himself keep waving and grinning. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, I'll see my chickie tomorrow..._

"Now, let's have a word from our judges!" Snookie was supposed to bound eagerly over to the judges' table; it ended up more of a listless stroll, and the camera had to backtrack to find him plodding across the stage. Snookie didn't bother trying to smile for the monsters lined up at the table. "B D?"

"Hmmm..." B D thought hard; small wisps of smoke began curling off his flat head. "Well, y'know, Snookie, I guess I'm gonna have to go with...Toledo."

Snookie stared at him. "Toledo?"

B D nodded firmly. "Toledo!"

"Uh huh." Snookie turned to the next monster. "Our returning special guest judge, Gorgon Heap! Mr Heap, what say you to this magnificent lineup of brave-if-not-especially-keen-on-survival players?"

"Aaaahhhm nom nom nom!" Heap yelled, proceeding to chew on B D's arm.

"Hey! Get off me!"

"I see," Snookie sighed, turning to the last judge. "Hem?"

"Wow, Snookie, that's hard to say," the tan monster rumbled, putting a thoughtful hand to his round head and drumming his thick fingers; hollow _tock-tock-tocks_ came from his skull. "I guess...I'd have to say...I'll go with _frabjuous."_

"Excuse me?"

"No, no, wait – no never mind. I was thinking maybe _scabbified,_ but _frabjuous_ really is a better word. Yep. That's my word." Behemoth looked very pleased with himself.

Snookie shook his head, facing the audience again. "There you have it...some words from the judges, and I can't believe even _they_ would use a joke that lame. So up next, farewell performances from our contestants and the announcement of the winner of this inaugural, and _inarguably_ horrific, season of _Break a Leg—_ but right now, straight off a successful tour of the world's biggest waterborne trash slurry, Barbie Sargasso!"

Snookie retreated as a shiny-skinned, blonde, petite thing with a permanent wide smile (with that many teeth, Snookie doubted she _could_ ever close her mouth) skipped to the center of the stage. "Wow! Hi! This is just _so_ exciting! I want to thank all my fans who've endlessly copied my excessively simplistic song for their own videos that look _exactly_ as low-budget as mine! If imitation is the sinsy...uh...the sinnest...no, that's not it...um...what I mean to say is you love me, you really _really_ love me!" the perky little monster chirped. As the crowd roared, she gestured at the backup band. A Mutation stepped out of the wings, repeating two guitar chords over and over, and another pressed the playback button on a Boog keyboard. The pop star launched into her only hit. "You won't kill me...you're so crazy! Makes me _so_ sad...eat me maybe?"

Gonzo hopped down from his pedestal, running to the holding pen. "Rosie! Rosie, did you remember the shoes? Rosie?" He looked around, not spying his assistant anywhere...and then heard snarling and loud thumps. Peering past the corner of the platform, he saw the pink-skinned, three-eyed monster trading punches with two squealing Frackles as a bewildered Jasmine Fatwah watched, her chain still gripped by an oblivious troll. The enraged Rosie knocked aside the Frackles and leapt with a wild war whoop upon the troll. "Uh...Rosie, what are you doing?" Gonzo called up. McGurk thwapped his fists over and over at the bulbous cone-head of the troll; after a moment, the troll frowned mildly, reached up, and scratched his head, dislodging Rosie.

"Bleaagh," the lovestruck monster groaned. Gonzo sighed, and went over to help. Rosie grabbed the chain holding Fatwah captive, and yanked on it with all his might, trying to free it from the troll's meaty grip. The troll didn't even notice, his gaze turned up to the bigscreen where the musical performance had entered the endless chorus. Gonzo looked at all of this, and plucked a feather from the alligator wearing Roberto boots.

"Pardon me," he apologized; the alligator shrugged. Gonzo used the feather to tickle the troll's rear end. He tickled one side, and the troll reached back to absently scratch that spot. Gonzo darted to the other side, tickling there, and sure enough the troll used his other hand to scratch, releasing the chain. At the sudden slacking of tension, Rosie's angry tug sent him sprawling. Gonzo sighed, tossing away the feather. "There ya go. Now can we please get back to the act?"

Abashedly the pink-headed monster nodded, turned to Fatwah, and threw aside her chain-leash in a grand flourish. "Gabba freega!" he proclaimed.

Looking irritated, Fatwah smacked the knee of the troll. He leaned down, puzzled, and Fatwah handed him the end of the leash again, then snuggled against those hairy legs with a contented sigh. Rosie's jaw went slack. Gonzo nudged him. "Eh, c'mon, plenty of other...um... _things_ in the dungeons, right?"

Rosie stared another second at the fading chance of lost love, then sighed and nodded at the Whatever. "Ah-kayyy..."

"Chin up, Rosie," Gonzo urged. "Hey, y'know, there _are_ other chickens back at the Muppet Theatre...if you're a leg man like me, it's Thanksgiving every day! Maybe Camilla could set you up with a friend? We could go on double dates! Wouldn't that be great? Just picture it: the night air rushing through your fur, riding with the top down, heading out to the drive-in, your arm snug around a plush little ball of white feathers while her cute little wattles flap in the breeze..." He shivered all over happily. "Man! I have just _gotta_ see her again soon! I'm a dying man here, Rosie!"

McGurk sobered fast. Gonzo had no idea how true that was. As the daredevil changed into his costume, for once _not_ involving spandex, Rosie looked around. No one was paying them any attention; the judges were busy arguing among themselves over French or Italian food for dinner later; that slinky, sly flunky of the underboss' was nowhere in sight. Rosie took a deep breath, about to tell Gonzo that he needed to get out of here and now – and Pew suddenly careened past, having fallen off the rear of the platform, and his flailing cane whacked Rosie across the back of his furry skull.

"Okay, this should be pretty simple, I'm only going to do one verse and a..." Gonzo turned, and saw his assistant passed out on the ground. He shook his head. "...chorus. Geez...you'd think the guy would figure out that late-night parties and hard work don't mix..." Gonzo shrugged. "Well, probably better to let him sleep it off. I'll tell him about my seamonkey-and-Tang hangover cure when he wakes up." Gonzo checked his appearance in the monitor of the backstage camera feed. "Not too shabby! Hah! Camilla sweetie, here comes your loverboy!" With a quick tug of his Hawaiian-print tie, Gonzo got in line at the edge of the platform, waiting his turn to go on for his last performance of the show. When Pew tottered past again, Gonzo had a brilliant idea; he grabbed the director's cane. "Gonna borrow this just a minute, 'kay?" Pew growled, tried to snatch the cane back, pinwheeled and crashed under the platform.

In the audience, Constanza la Whatnot scrunched down as low as she could get without actually putting her bottom on the frog-only-knows-what-encrusted bench of her bleacher seat. She was less than thrilled about having a shaggy monster's arm around her, but given that any of the other creatures in the crowd might have decided to have _her_ instead of another hot dog, she was grudgingly tolerating Carl's guardianship. As Blyer came back onstage to announce another commercial break, she watched him; when his spotlight turned off and the big screen behind the stage played the network's ad block for the in-house crowd, Blyer's smile vanished, his shoulders slumped, and he looked right at her with a hard, neutral expression. Constanza wondered why, and then felt Carl tighten his grip around her as he gave a nasty grin to a five-armed thing leaning just a little too close to her. Uncomfortable, Constanza looked from the rebuffed thing to Carl's smug eyes to Blyer, who turned away and didn't look back at her again.

 _Now what the heck is his...oh,_ she thought. She glared at Carl. "Do you _have_ to keep me in a deathgrip, buddy?" she complained. "I'm a big girl! I can take care of myself!"

Carl turned wide, curious eyes to her, his giant pink nose twitching. "You didn't have a problem with it last time! What, did I forget to leave off my _eau de compost_ aftershave again?" He sniffed himself experimentally.

The pink-blotched Whatnot scowled. "No! And last time, _he_ wasn't – er..."

Carl stared at her. "He?" He noticed her face turning even pinker, and his horns perked up. "Waaaaaiiitaminute! Ooooh! Do you have a little bit of a _thing_ for Snookums?"

"I...don't be stupid!" she snapped. "'Course not! I just don't like being Muppethandled all the time!"

Carl chortled. "Oh-ho-ho! Stinky's got a cruuuush, Stinky's got a cruuuush..." That singsong tone in his scratchy voice was even more annoying. Leaning closer, he whispered at her (she assumed that raspy, hoarse voice was supposed to be a whisper, at least), "Well ya know what? _He_ likes _you_ _tooo_ ooo!"

"What?" Constanza said, startled.

Carl bounced up and down on the bench. "Oooh, ooh, Muppets in loooove! Oh, I am gonna _have_ to work that into the show tomorrow! You're comin' with me, scrumptious!"

"What? Your stupid talk show? Oh no. No no no!" Constanza pulled away, alarmed, but Carl hugged her shoulder tightly, yanking her face into his thick, matted coat. She coughed, unappreciative of his vaguely dirty-dishwasher smell.

"One lovebird pie will be served up tomorrow night!" Carl crowed, and squeezed her tight. "Oh, this will be _so_ cute I can hardly stand it!"

Constanza looked back at the platform. Blyer had returned to center stage, waiting while the stage manager counted down the seconds until they were back live; his eyes wandered listlessly over the howling, shoving, excited audience...and lingered just a moment more on her...as Carl scrunched her against him. Blyer's gaze narrowed, and he turned all his attention toward the camerafrackle at the front of the stage.

Carl choked, startled, when his ward shoved him hard in the belly. "Let _go_ of me, you jerk!" she snarled.

The monster rubbed his tummy. "Wow! If you can hit that hard from the _outside_ of me, maybe I made the wrong choice in letting you stay out here instead of seeing what a kick you'd make going down!" He chuckled. "That's better than hot sauce!"

Constanza made no reply, glumly sinking down on her seat again, completely forgetting about the gunk she didn't want to touch until she sat right in it. She grimaced. This was _not_ one of the better nights of her life...

Gonzo waited as the host introduced the toucan-feather boots; the alligator wearing them did a runway walk to a hot Brazilian tune, to the cheers and wolf-whistles of the crowd. Then the snail shell was tossed onstage with a fanfare, but although a paper shooting gallery of targets paraded across the front of the stage, the sharpshooter never emerged to fire off a single shot. Gonzo paced, going over the dance moves in his head; his skills, he knew, loaned themselves better to tightrope walking than graceful softshoe, but he was determined to demonstrate his versatility...and besides, he knew Camilla had always secretly liked his silly old Fred Astaire routine. When finally he heard his name announced, he straightened his shoulders, marched right onto the stage, and conferred with the bandleader—he'd decided to change the tune he'd dance to. He grinned at the audience, swept the trilby hat from his forehead with a bow, and announced, "Although I have the most _wonderful_ chickie a guy could ever hope for, I know some of you aren't as fortunate. Kinda like my friend Rosie. So this song is for all you folks out there who feel unlucky in love!"

The audience grumbled, uncertain; they wanted something dangerous and deathly. Gonzo nodded at the Mutations, and they began a slow shuffle of a tune with banjo and double-bass. Gonzo slid his feet along the stage, using Pew's cane as his dancing prop. Spying a big gray monster cuddling a smaller one with Groucho glasses and moustache, Gonzo pointed to them with the cane, and sang:

 _"They may walk hand in hand_  
 _like lovers through the market square_  
 _selecting leather goods_  
 _pretending that they just don't care..._  
 _They say all the boys are monsters..."_

Snickers and chuckles spread through the audience; Gonzo laughed too.

 _"And all the girls are..."_ He paused, realizing they probably wouldn't let him say that word, then noticed a piglike goblin holding the paw of a large tusked thing. Inspired, he finished, _"boars!_  
 _so when you lose the one you love_  
 _there's always plenty more!"_

He did a pattern of stylish little footfalls across the stage, twirled, and began the next verse. Getting into the spirit of it, a few of the audience monsters began swaying along.

 _"They may be in a club_  
 _all dressed up waiting to meet you_  
 _or in some garret bleak_  
 _despairing over what to do..._

 _All the girls are monsters_  
 _all the boys are boors..._  
 _So when you lose the one you love_  
 _there's always plenty more!"_

He danced, feeling a little out of breath, trying to master that tap-and-slide thing that Camilla always sighed happily at. The band wound up the last chorus with him:

 _"So when you lose the one you love_  
 _there's always plenty more...plenty more...plenty moooore!"_

The crowd laughed, cheered, and threw things. Grinning, Gonzo bowed, sweeping up one of the grungy socks which had landed close by, and waving it over his head as he cheerily trotted offstage.

Carl applauded with everyone else, and elbowed the Whatnot girl; she coughed, startled. "Aww! Wasn't that a sweet little song? Hey, what would _you_ like to sing tomorrow night? I'll let you and Snookums do a duet, even!"

Constanza glared at him, readjusting her disguise. "You're a jerk, hornbrain! I don't sing! Except for folk-rock protest songs."

"Hmm, nope, don't think that'll work for what I have in mind." Carl grinned at the way she scrunched up her nose in contempt at him. "Ya know, I can _almost_ see it, when you squish your face all ugly like that."

"See what?"

"What it is that makes Snookie want to get all gushy with you. Do you Muppety things do that? Get gushy? See, when a ghoul and a guy love one another very, _very_ much..."

"Spare me," Constanza growled. "And I do not get gushy!"

"Bet you would if I used the acidic tenderizing rub," Carl mused.

Alarmed, Constanza argued, "You – you made a deal with Blyer! You're not allowed to eat me!"

"That's right," Carl agreed. "I made a deal to only eat _him!_ And tomorrow night _you_ will help me demonstrate how to bake a lovebird pie! Hah hah hah!"

"The _frog_ I will, you big furry creep!"

"Oooh, language!" Carl chuckled, and suddenly yanked her tight against the side of his bulging belly. "I _like_ a girl who's not afraid to get dirty! Hey, if ya ever change your mind about Snookums, maybe we..."

"I am _not_ changing my mind!" Constanza shouted, then froze, realizing dozens of curious eyes were upon her. Thinking fast, she kept yelling: "Uh...I'm _not_ giving you any of those wasp eggs! I want 'em all for my cookies!" The surrounding monsters chuckled, looking back at the stage; one of them rumbled at her to keep it down so they could hear the contestants scream.

Carl smiled, but felt a twinge of something...some uneasy _feeling_ deep inside, at the thought of making this defiant young lady watch while he prepared Snookie with apple cider, allspice, and centipede-egg stuffing and baked him in sweet pastry dough...forcing her to help him cook the hapless talk-show sidekick and then hand out samples to the audience... He glanced uncomfortably from Snookie onstage to the miserable Whatnot huddled next to him. His stomach turned over slowly.

 _Ahhhh...you're just hungry,_ he told himself, trying to feel convinced.

Gonzo looked around for Rosie during the last commercial break. The pink monster had vanished. "Huh...wonder if I embarrassed him," Gonzo muttered, peering under the platform. He blinked at the sight of the show director tangled in a crossed pile of electrical cables. "Oh, hey, thanks for the cane! Here ya go," he said, handing back the stick.

Pew struggled, and tried to say something, but another facehugger crawled out of the cables, found a warm body, and eagerly splorched its entire body over Pew's snout. "Wow," Gonzo murmured, backing away with wide eyes. "Geez..." He shook his head, and commented to a stagefrackle, "Talk about needing to get a room! Does he _ever_ think about what he's doing in public?"

The Frackle shrugged. "Eh...he ain't even da _woist_ of 'em, sad ta say."

Onstage, Snookie did his best to ignore the way Carl was snuggling with the pretty blue-and-pink Whatnot. _Shoulda known she was a freak. Everybody down here is. Did you really think you were gonna find a normal girl anywhere belowground?_ He scolded himself silently for thinking like a stupid teenager and allowing himself to entertain for even one second the notion of something which _wasn't_ horrendous and painful. As the stage manager gave one grim nod, Snookie forced a thin smile to his face and addressed the main camera. "All right, fiends, we're now down to the moment you've all been drooling for – the awarding of the title Most Broken to our most fearless performer! Judges, can we have another wo—no, scratch that. Which contestant do each of you think _most_ deserves this dubious honor?"

B D hummed thoughtfully. "Well, there have been _many_ stupendously braindead acts across this stage, Snookie, but I gotta tell you, there's really only one which impressed me as being worth my time at all the entire season!"

"Mungus or Gonzo?" Snookie asked.

"Huh? Oh, well, yeah, them too I guess. I was actually thinking how _delicious_ that sheepfighter guy was...but yeah, Gonzo has amazed me by how long he's gone without losing a vital organ."

"Are you kidding?" Hem growled. He gestured angrily, waving a half-squashed Shakey over his head. "Gonzo all the way, Snookie! That guy has done more suicidal stuff all season than alla the rest of 'em combined! Plus...I'm really curious how blue fur tastes..."

"You _really_ are disgusting," B D muttered, crossing his blue arms nervously over his plain white t-shirt.

"Shakey?" Snookie asked. "You seem kind of...uh...quiet tonight."

"Gluggga," Shakey choked; Hem absentmindedly stuffed him into a cheek pouch and chewed slowly.

"And our guest judge...oh why do I bother," Snookie grumbled, turning away while Heap stuffed the ribbons for the runners-up down his gullet. "So it seems among our judges, the Great Gonzo leads the way, but what did you, the gullible voters out there in tv-land think? What was the final popular tally?" he called over to the table where the double-header and the triple-header quickly abandoned the game of sheepshead they'd been playing. Cards scattered and pencils rolled off the table, and the monsters at least had the decency to look a little sheepish themselves.

"Labba vaggiggo mugabba foo!" proclaimed Horns-up.

"That's right!" the middle head of the triple agreed.

Snookie paused. "Er...for those of us with actual _working_ speech centers in our brains...can anyone translate?"

"Waggoo!" Horns-down protested.

Shaking his head, Snookie looked behind him at the enormous screen, where each contestant's name was listed, along with the judges' final scores and the results of the call-in voting. The numbers were all out of order, the names listed by first-to-die, so it took a moment of squinting for Snookie to read it all. "Uh...looks like our winner, and recipient of the most outrageously insulting trophy ever contrived on a game show, _is..."_

A muffled yell accompanied the director reeling past, fighting with an octopoid thing on his head, dragging a sparking lighting cable knotted around his ankle. Everyone stared. Pew lashed out with his cane, trying to hit himself over the head and dislodge the facehugger. The flailing stick smacked into the bottom of the screen: it fizzled, warped, and popped back on, showing Gonzo clearly at the top of the standings. "Like anyone didn't see this coming like a class-four tornado –the Great Gonzo!" Snookie shouted. The crowd exploded in wild cheers and howls. Pew roared in frustration, smacked himself hard with the cane, and teetered for an instant on the edge of the platform. The facehugger looked equally dazed as the director. Then the monster slid off his head, and Pew toppled straight over. The sound of crashing trash bins and breaking bottles rattled the studio even over the whoops from the crowd.

"Ow," muttered the goblin Pew had landed on.

Gonzo found his assistant groggy, with a bump rising from his skull the size of New Jersey. Gonzo grabbed him and hugged him hard. "Rosie! We _won!_ We _won!_ Come on! _Get_ up here with me! Woo hoooo!" He dragged the half-conscious monster onstage, where applause, whistles, and thrown Chihuahuas added to the general air of celebratory mayhem. "This is awesome! Thank you! Thank you!" Gonzo yelled, waving to the whole crowd. When Snookie placed the dead-spider tiara on Gonzo's head, the Whatever felt suffused with glory. "Yes! Yes! Camilla baby, this is for _you!_ "

Snookie waited a moment for the cheering to die down, but when, if anything, the audience became _more_ rowdy – he ducked a chunk of thrown bleacher—he made the call on his own to wrap the show up as fast as possible. "Well Gonzo you've won the prize and earned for yourself the privilege of being personally killed by the underlord!" he barked out in one breath. "What're you going to do now?"

Eyes wide, Gonzo shook the dazed Rosie like a teddy monster, and threw his other hand in the air in a fist-pump. He threw himself forward at the nearest camera, and screamed triumphantly, _"I'm going to chickie-land!"_


	54. Chapter 47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN. _In which Beaker tests some running gags; the Newsman finds the MMN studios deadlier than expected; and Tonkin picks the wrong briefcase._

Dr Bunsen Honeydew pottered cheerfully among the server racks, reams of cables, and command center desk with its two monitors and keyboard controls. One computer screen would show commands entered into the intricate system of motorized contraptions, motion sensors, night-vision cameras, and video and audio output channels; the other had nine tiny windows open showing some of the various video feeds throughout the decrepit hotel. "Oh, Beakie, isn't this wonderful? Here we are, after weeks of hard work and intricate tactile-hypokinesthetic programming, finally at the big night!"

"Mee mee meep might," Beaker corrected, his eyes flicking from readout to readout as he tested the conductivity of the tiny electrosensitive pads which each participant in the charity walk would be wearing. He wiggled his arms, shook his head, and rubbed his hands together to make each of the dozens of round, sticky sensors on his felt spike a small reading on another monitor.

"Well, yes, the _day_ of the big night, I mean," Bunsen replied, annoyed. He saw what Beaker was doing, and with a huff corrected him: "Beaker! You're not going to get an adequate test run like _that!"_

"Mee mee meep?" Beaker wondered. He tried to point out that each sensor was indeed registering the subtle changes in his electromagnetic field from the physical activity, and even transmitting properly to the receiver, but Bunsen grabbed his arm, steering him toward the open panel-door from the old manager's office to the front lobby of the hotel.

"Here, why don't we do a full test run of _all_ the equipment! Each participant tonight will have one of these..." He jammed a small red-hued LED lamp on a headband over Beaker's fluff of red hair. "And one of these..." He clipped a small wireless mic to Beaker's shirtcollar; it stuck up high enough to rub the edge of his mouth uncomfortably. "And one of these!" He smacked a glow-in-the-dark panel of fabric with a number painted inside concentric circles right across Beaker's chest. "There we go! _Now_ you're ready for a test run!"

"Muh...muh muh meep?"

"Well, we should test _each and every_ little gag we've installed, don't you think? After all, tonight, the whole world will be watching! We wouldn't want any of our little _spooooky_ pranks to be a whopping dud, now would we?" Bunsen insisted, waggling his fingers again and chuckling. "All right, I'll stay here and check the readouts to make sure everything is picked up by the sensors, the mics and the cameras!" Beaker stared at him, unhappy with the idea of walking through the whole building; although it was a clear, if chilly, day outside, very little of that light penetrated the walls and boarded-over windows. The interior hallways, in particular, would be pitch-black.

"Meep _mee_ meek mee mee!" he pointed out.

Bunsen snapped his fingers. "Good _point,_ Beakie!" Beaker relaxed a little; in order to test out _all_ the equipment, Bunsen would have to accompany him with another microphone, and they'd – he froze, startled, when the scientist turned back to him with an armful of wireless mics on clips. "Here you go!"

Beaker could only try to stammer a protest while Bunsen quickly fastened the mics all over him; soon a small electronic forest of microphones crowded his shirtcollar and tie, making it almost impossible for Beaker to even open his mouth. "Meef moof?"

"Oh, don't worry, each of them is on a slightly _different_ and _distinct_ audio channel! You know I _always_ think of every _possible_ contingency so nothing will go wrong!" Bunsen beamed at his stunned assistant. "And here's an earphone for you, so you can hear my instructions! Off you go, Beakie! Just start out here in the lobby, like the walkers will, and wander around randomly – but try to hit every room. We need to make sure every single trap and trick is working right!"

With a heavy sigh, Beaker trudged out of the command center and into the lobby. He paused, looking around. Bunsen's voice made him jump. "Testing, testing, can you hear me, Beaker?" With an exasperated look, Beaker turned and nodded at the scientist standing ten feet away in the office. Bunsen smiled. "Wonderful! All right; to replicate the exact conditions for tonight as nearly as possible, I'll shut myself up in here, and you get started walking around! Remember: _every_ room!" Cheerfully, Bunsen closed the panel in the wall behind the old reception desk, and it was as if Beaker was alone in the hotel. Beaker took a deep breath, looking around glumly. His eyes fixed upon the darkened arched entry to the formal dining room, and he shivered. He craned his head to see the ceiling; nothing moving showed in the reddish light from his headband among the tattered wisps of webbing overhead. Reluctantly Beaker walked across the immense lobby, peering fearfully at every broken chandelier, the paper streamers draped everywhere not lifting his mood in the least.

When he reached the dining room entrance, he paused again, shining his light into the gloom. Round tables and silent chairs sat everywhere, with darkened centerpieces and silverware still laid out for guests among the dust and decay. Beaker took a step inside, another, another...as he passed the first couple of tables, the skulls sitting among the dead flowers and broken candlesticks laughed eerily, their eyes lighting up. "Meef!" Beaker squeaked, jumping again at Bunsen's chortle through the headset.

"Good, good! That'll give them a little start, don't you think? Go on, make sure they're all working!"

Irritated, Beaker tried to calm himself, and walked all around the room, his fright dying to annoyance as one after another of the motion-sensor skulls lit up and laughed or said _boo_ or some other cheap-scare contrivance. When he'd walked all around the room, Beaker headed for the swinging doors to the kitchen. He stopped at one of the doors, trying to peer through the dusty, round glass porthole set into it, unable to recall what gags they'd wired in here; Bunsen had taken care of this room while Beaker was upstairs. Hesitantly, he pushed on one of the doors. It swung open, but as he crossed the threshold, a pressure-trigger underfoot made the door thwop back, sending him sprawling. "Ooh hoo hoo, yes! Perfect! Was that enough force, do you think, or should we amp it up just a touch? The servo-motor can withstand another ten pounds of pressure from the compressed air pump, I'm sure..." Bunsen mused.

Beaker muttered under his breath about kicking some foot-pounds up _someone's_ amp, and shoved the other door open to enter the kitchen. He swiveled his head around slowly, the red light sweeping over an enormous dormant grill, rows of dirty steel countertops, and racks of pots and pans. As he cautiously made his way down the first aisle of prep counters, the pots and pans overhead began to quiver, then jangle, then swing wildly. Nervous, Beaker reached up to still them, but before his hand touched them they stopped on their own. Beaker gulped, reminding himself this was all motorized and triggered by his own weight on floor-pads or by motion detectors. Peering closely at the nearest counter, he saw one such detector, and relaxed a little. _No ghosts here,_ he thought, trying to reassure himself. _No ghosts, this is all our stuff, all tricks..._

"Beaker, you're supposed to let the swinging-pan gag play out all the way!" Bunsen complained. "It's supposed to rattle and clang a while until you move away from it! Why did you make it stop? Was the noise too loud?"

Frozen, Beaker stared at the perfectly still pans hanging overhead. "Meef mohh..." he gulped, still muffled by the army of mics. Nervously he hurried past that counter, heading for the grill.

"Oh, goody! The 'Flaming Pork of Doom'! This is one of my favorites!" Bunsen exclaimed.

"Morf?" Beaker asked. Just then, the grill burst into green flames, and the image of a twisting, struggling, ghostly pig trussed like a roast, with a small skull stuffed in his mouth instead of an apple, appeared atop the metal grates. "Meeee!" Beaker shrieked. He stood there shaking, trying to tell himself it was only an illusion, a projection, _why see there, if you look you can see the laser light behind it!_ He took a breath, uneasily watching the illusion snort and shudder, trying to free itself from the flames. Just as he'd begun to calm down, the ghost-pig turned its head to look directly at him, and it spat the skull. The projectile bounced off Beaker's nose, startling him.

"Oh my goodness, Beakie!" Bunsen laughed over the headset. "I had no _idea_ you'd snuck in there and modified the animation program! And using an air cannon and a physical skull – that's _genius,_ Beakie! Bravo!"

Beaker stared at the image. It glared back, and slowly stood up on the grill.

Beaker hadn't even known what programs Bunsen had installed in the kitchen.

With a choked-off scream, every carroty hair standing straight up, Beaker fled.

"Beakie, wait! You didn't even look in the 'fridge yet!" Bunsen protested.

Newsie awoke with a shiver, nearly crying out at his reflection before he remembered where he was and how he was dressed. Clapping a hand over his beak, he stared at the image he cast in the mirrorlike side of a steel counter across from the niche he'd wedged himself into. Gradually his heartbeat settled, and he exhaled. _Did I fall asleep? Frog, that's not good...what time is it?_ He unrolled the black velvet glove from his left hand to check his watch. _Nearly ten in the morning..._ He slumped, dismayed. _Gina, where are you?_

He'd run as hard as he could from the raggy monsters attacking Deadly; if they could shock a _ghost_ with their tentacles of terror as Newsie had seen, what might the awful creatures do to a simple Muppet? When he'd slowed finally, panting, to look over his shoulder, there was so sign of Deadly, or the weird jellyfish monsters...or anyone, actually. Hoping to find his beloved, the Newsman had roamed what seemed like an endless catacomb of prison cells, searching for hours. When he'd come across a rough ramp leading down, he followed it, winding up in what seemed to be the production studios for MMN. He'd cautiously peeked into every room along the rough-hewn corridors, but most of them were dark and deserted...until he'd wandered into this kitchen set, and before he could exit, a group of Hideous, Deformed Things had bustled in, each one wearing a poufy chef's toque. Frightened, Newsie had wedged himself into this storage area under a prep counter, but then a large lizardish creature with dripping fangs spotted him.

Frantically Newsie had yanked on the sliding panel to shut himself in the steel cabinet, but the lizard screeched and ran right for him – and brained itself, running face-first into the opposite cabinet, chasing Newsie's reflection. Then a monster with big orange eyebrows and clawed, furry hands had grabbed the dazed lizard and thrown it into a gigantic Roc-Pot pressure cooker. "Right! Giorgio, we _never_ let the main course run loose in the kitchen; it disrupts _everything!"_

"Yes, Chef," mumbled one of the Hideous Things. Newsie had listened in utter shock while the monsters began what apparently was a kitchen competition called _'Boredom Ramslay's Kitchen Frightmares.'_ Newsie huddled in the half-closed cabinet, not daring to breathe too loudly, but the monsters, intent on not displeasing the snappish head chef, never noticed him while they hustled around fixing appetizers and learning the proper way to serve _raptor á la Provençale._ The clean-up afterward had gone on for what seemed hours...and Newsie, exhausted and forced to remain motionless all that time, had nodded off.

Disgusted with himself, he craned his neck out of the cabinet. The kitchen was dim and silent. With a soft groan, he climbed out, stretching from his shoulders all the way down to his ankles, hearing quiet creaks and pops from joints cramped too long. Looking around, he saw the kitchen set was indeed empty. His stomach growled. Hopefully he crept to the large 'fridge and locker-style freezer in one corner. However, what he saw upon opening the 'fridge made his guts churn. He shut the door hastily. _Oh frog. Oh frog oh frog...were those...toes in cocktail sauce? Don't want to know, don't want to know,_ he thought, shuddering. For once, his reporter's instinct to dig into everything was quiescent. _Some things should remain a mystery!_ A muffled thump from the freezer made him jump. "H-hello?" he asked aloud, his voice hoarse, his throat dry and fuzzy. The thump sounded again, and the freezer shook a little. _Someone's alive in there! Oh my frog, they stuffed someone in there alive!_ Quickly he grabbed the handle of the lid, straining his shoulders; he had to put all his sore muscles to work just to break the frozen seal and thrust the lid upward. "Hello? Are you okay?" he asked, standing on tiptoe to peer inside.

Something coughed. A clawed hand curled over the top, followed by the icy nose of the same lizard which had been the featured menu item last night – or perhaps its cousin. It glared at a very startled Muppet, then tried to growl, but its jaws were frozen shut. Before it could jump out, Newsie leaped up, caught the edge of the lid, and slammed it down hard, whacking the thing on the head and catching its claws in the door. It gave a muffled snarl. "Ungh! Ungh! Ungh!" Newsie puffed, slamming the lid down repeatedly until the claws slipped back inside and he heard the lock catch. Gasping, he backed away. The freezer thumped again. Newsie left in a hurry.

He entered the next room down the hallway, another deserted studio. This was dripping and cavernous, and when he stopped to take a breath, he heard a strange, soft sound. _Waves? What on earth..._ Puzzled, he fumbled through his knapsack for his flashlight, and carefully shone it around. A huge structure like a rainbarrel took up most of the room, with raised wooden bleachers perched in a semicircle around its rim. Newsie walked up to it, locating a simple wooden staircase, and climbed up to look into what had to be the biggest indoor water-tank since that terrible Kevin Costner global-warming-post-apocalyptic flick. _What the heck do they do in here?_ He shone his light up and around, picking out stage lights and boom mics suspended from ceiling trusses overhead. He was familiar with such things from the television newsroom and the movie sets he'd been privileged to stand on for a few minutes' work. _They definitely film_ _ **something**_ _in here._ Ripples coursed over the black water, and he heard them lapping softly against the lined sides of the huge container. Nervously he stepped well away from the edge. An odd smell filled his nose; he raised his mask a moment to take a deep sniff unhindered by the fake beak. _Salt? Is that salt water?_

A memory instantly came to him: Gina examining tiny crystals on a cracked tunnel wall. _The ConEd tunnel leak! Am I near there?_ He had no way of knowing...but as he sniffed again several times, he became convinced it was indeed the exact same mix of moisture and pungent salt that he'd smelled in that other tunnel, what seemed like months ago... _Only weeks,_ he realized, dismayed. The memory of being stuck in bed with a bad sniffle hit him then, and he yanked the mask back down, hoping it would block some of the dampness of the room. _Have to be a hundred per cent right now! Can't save Gina if you're so stopped up you can't even breathe!_

Depressed, he sat down on a warped bleacher bench. _What if she's not even down here anymore? What if...if they...NO!_ He refused to even consider that possibility. He sat there, shivering in the damp chill air, listening to the quiet sounds of water. _So hungry...so tired..._ He hadn't eaten anything since last night's hasty supper of soup and sandwich while he packed the— _the knapsack! Didn't I pack some peanut-butter crackers?_ Eagerly, he rummaged through the bag, bringing out a coil of plastic rope, the mousetrap (nearly catching his fingers in it), a package of tiny jacks and a rubber ball, a small bottle of water, and some lint. In dismay he checked again. _Frog it! Must be in the other pack...which is back at the apartment,_ he realized. He opened the water bottle and allowing himself two small swallows. _Better conserve supplies. Gina might need it. Have they allowed her any water, any food at all?_ Feeling a sniffle trying to creep down his long nose, he shook his head angrily. _Have to go on! Keep looking! She has to be down here somewhere! Keep going!_ But his stomach rumbled again.

Hopelessly, he nevertheless stuck his hands in the pockets of the costume, thinking perhaps he'd tucked a mint or a candy in there the last time he'd worn this, at the Bears' Halloween party. Something scratchy met his questing fingers, and surprised, he drew forth the iced sugar skull he'd won at the costume contest. He blinked at it, a little uneasy; he wasn't a big fan of death symbols... _But Mrs Bear said it was supposed to be_ _ **good**_ _luck,_ he recalled. _And it_ _ **is**_ _made of sugar..._

He popped it into his mouth, crunching carefully. The confection dissolved quickly on his broad tongue, and he swallowed what tasted like pure sugar. Almost immediately his sensitive Muppet system jolted awake. "Whoa," he muttered. "This stuff's better than coffee!"

Feeling energized and more determined than ever, the Newsman climbed down from the tank. He heard a splash behind him, and whirled, training his light at the noise. Large black eyes blinked at him. Newsie stared, recognizing the curve of the mouth, the fin standing up behind it as it leaned over the side, before it even spoke and revealed multiple rows of jagged teeth.

"Hey," said the shark, "We filmin' today or what? I'm hungry!"

The door slammed behind the Newsman. Goompah stared after him. "Well...how about just a bite, then?" he yelled. The black bird-creature didn't return. Goompah frumped, slapping a fin against the top wall of the tank. "Aw, c'mon! Just a nibble? _Somethin'?_ I'm _dyin'_ in heah!"

Beaker tossed aside the extra rubber calipers, the fifty yards of cordless extension cord, the Y-hooks they hadn't needed after all...it had to be in here _somewhere..._ "Meep!" he exclaimed, pulling from the junk-box the exact instrument he wanted. He held it up, turned it on, and checked the screen. Only background energy showed on the portable psychokinetic scanner. Tiptoeing to the half-open panel of the old manager's office, Beaker cautiously stuck his head out and looked around. Bunsen was still out fetching lunch; he'd elected to take on that particular task while leaving Beaker to "sort through that junk-box and find the rest of the power couplings for the centrifugal farce generator – that scary bouncy-bed in room three-fourteen needs some extra _oomph."_ Beaker had been less than thrilled about remaining _alone_ in the defunct hotel, even in daytime, but as soon as Bunsen had trotted out, Beaker realized he might have the means to prove to his colleague that he _hadn't_ imagined scares throughout the test run which _neither_ of them had actually programmed! He glanced down again at the readout screen, but so far, the PKE meter wasn't showing anything out of the ordinary.

Stepping slowly out of the relative shelter of the command center, Beaker held up the scanner at arm's length and swept it across his line of sight. Nothing...nothing... _beep_...nothing... _wait!_ He swung it back toward the grand staircase, and another small beep sounded. Beaker gulped, and with his head down into his shirt, trembling, he advanced across the lobby. He pointed the scanner up the stairs, thinking of that awful spider which had attacked him on their first day here...and of the creepy kissing things he was _positive_ he'd seen in a room upstairs, despite Bunsen's insistence that they hadn't rigged any _kissing_ creeps, just ones that swung down and yelled "Boo!" However, nothing registered from that direction. Confused, Beaker stepped closer, checking the meter again, tweaking the settings a bit to pick up lower levels of energy. Now he _did_ get a reading...but it seemed to be coming from... _down_... Beaker moved even farther from the comfort of their tech gear in the office, casting a longing look back at it, but he needed actual _proof,_ something Bunsen couldn't sneeze at! Carefully, Beaker eased around the newel post, sweeping the scanner ahead of him. Another blip: he oriented on it, and realized it was emanating from the stone steps _behind_ the main staircase, the ones heading down to the basement...

Beaker gulped again. _Maybe...maybe it's just something that Van Neuter guy is working on?_ He hoped so. Wait. Maybe he _didn't. What_ would a vet and bioscientist be messing with which would throw off measurable levels of psychokinetic activity? The front door crashed open, and Beaker jumped, squealing. "Meeee!"

"I'm back!" Bunsen announced. "Drat that wind...nearly blew the hinges off! Give me a hand, would you, Beaker?"

Anxiously looking back at the shadow hiding the lower stairs, Beaker went to assist Bunsen in bringing in an armload of takeout bags. "I got that 'moo goo gone wrong' you always order!" Bunsen said, waggling a white carton at Beaker with a smile. "I know that'll perk you right up! You've been so _worried_ all morning..." He carried the food into the office. "And although I appreciate and share your determination to make all of this go off tonight without a glitch, Beakie, I must say I think you've been a _little_ overwrought. So, here's some hot green tea and some won ton soup to cheer you right up!" He paused, seeing his assistant's anxious stare wasn't going away. "Beaker? Why the long face?"

"Mee mee meep mee mee," Beaker explained, and thrust the PKE meter at Bunsen. "Meep meeper mee mee mee! Mee meep, meep meepie..."

Bunsen cut him off with both hands upraised. "Now, now, we've been over this! Just because that silly Rick Steves claimed this hotel was haunted does _not_ mean it's any such thing! You _know_ these tour guides always exaggerate in order to get more visitors!"

Beaker protested vehemently. "Meep _mee-mo_ meemee _meeep!"_

Bunsen sighed, unpacking his own bag of goodies from Cowboy Feng's. "Well...that could have been caused by any number of things! Suppose our friend Phil is working on a cosmological reverse-mitosis perpendicular-chronophysiological bypass of _terabytical_ proportions?" Beaker stared at him. Bunsen shrugged irritably. "Well, you never know, he _might!_ All I'm saying is, a reading that low doesn't signify _anything_ important!"

"Mee mee meep," Beaker argued weakly, seeing Bunsen's mind wouldn't change.

"Well of _course_ we're still going ahead tonight! Honestly, Beakie...one _tiny,_ itsy-bitsy little peak on the meter and you're convinced the boogeyman is about to jump out from behind those servers!" He chuckled; Beaker cast an uneasy look at the rack of hard drives. Bunsen dug a pair of chopsticks into his carton of fried squid in peach sauce. "Mmm-mmm good, as they say! Come now, Beakie...eat up while it's still nice and warm."

Reluctantly Beaker picked up his paper cup of hot tea, and made several attempts at drinking through the tiny spout on the lid; his nose kept blocking it. He sighed, and checked the PKE meter again: only background-level energy. Noticing this, Bunsen patted his shoulder. "There now, you see? You'd get a reading like that from simple subway activity crossing an electrical conduit! Nothing to worry about."

"Meep mo mo mee," Beaker said glumly.

Bunsen shook his head tolerantly. "Tell you what...keep checking it throughout the evening, if it makes you feel any better. But don't worry about any reading under two-point-two megajoules! All right?" Beaker nodded, and Bunsen resumed his lunch. "Lots of good antioxidants in that tea," he reminded Beaker. "As much stress as you're creating for yourself today, that should be _just_ the ticket. Drink up now."

Sighing, Beaker popped the lid off the cup, tilted his head back, and poured the tea into his mouth. Immediately his eyes turned red, steam whooshed out of his ears, and his tongue shriveled into a tiny burnt strip. "Woo-woo-woo- _meeeeeee!"_ he howled.

Startled, Bunsen checked the cup, then looked at another identical cup he'd just pulled from the bag. "Oh...oh dear! I think the kitchen mislabeled our cups! That was my hot-hot-so-hot-and-extremely-sour soup... _Here's_ your tea, Beakie!"

Beaker crumpled into a steaming heap, groaning. Concerned, Bunsen leaned over him, still holding out the correct cup. "Beaker? I really think the tea would help...you're falling apart over _nothing_ today, honestly!"

Noise, applause and music, drew Newsie to a door. A blinking red light outside notified him that taping was going on inside. He crept close to the narrow window set into the studio door. Inside, he could see a small audience of monsters clapping and whooping as lights came up in the center of a black platform, its edges marked in strips of blue neon. A Muppet walked down a series of black risers at the back of the stage, and an announcer snarled from hidden speakers: "It's the All-Meal Challenge today, and our latest contestant will soon discover there's more to worry about than staying alive, right now – on _Meal or No Meal!"_ The audience roared. Stunned, Newsie stared at the host, a man of yellow felt with sleek black hair and broad shoulders clothed in a tasteful brown plaid check jacket. "And now here's your host, Snookie Blyer!"

"Oh holy frog," Newsie gasped, pressing his beaked nose to the glass. _"Chester!"_

"Welcome to _Meal or No Meal,"_ Snookie said, his tone one of extreme contempt. "Today's contestant is facing double-meal-points, whether he likes it or not...let's say hello now, and goodbye soon enough...Pembroke Tonkin, hello there and welcome to the last game you'll ever play!"

Newsie gaped. A large tan-furred cat, looking much less suave and debonair than the Newsman had last seen him at Nofrisko, was shoved forward onto the stage. He stood uncomfortably while Snookie put an insincere arm around his shoulders and glanced at a cue card. "So Pembroke...I understand you used to be the head of a major snack company, but ran afoul of upper management and wound up drugged and dragged off in the middle of the night by slimy monster bugs, is that right?"

The cat grimaced. "Really, must we continue this appalling charade? Do be a chap, and let me loose..."

"I see," Snookie continued, ignoring the cat's request. "Well, that was _abysmally_ stupid of you! But maybe you'll get the chance today, _if_ you guess correctly, to go home in one piece...and maybe centipedes will fly. So, let's bring out the girls! Girls, come on out here!"

As pumping techno music played loudly, almost drowned by the cheers and whistles of the mostly-male audience, rows of presumably female monsters of all shapes, colors, and levels of hideousness in sequined miniskirts walked down the risers, and each displayed a beat-up miniature coffin to the audience. "All right Pembroke...choose your coffin!"

"This is a travesty!" the cat protested.

"Look, it's not like it matters, but wouldn't you rather _have_ thirty extra minutes of life? Just play the frogging game," Snookie muttered.

The cat sighed. "Number fourteen," he said, gesturing disdainfully.

"Fourteen, huh? That your birthday? Lucky number?"

"She has fewer warts."

"Okay then!" The blobbish ingenue, midriff flowing over her skirt as she moved, wobbled down the stage to deposit the coffin (and a fair amount of yellow slime) on a table at the front of the stage. "Let's get right to it! Pembroke, choose your first four coffins, and remember, this is double-meal today, so instead of starting at one per cent of your total body mass, the stakes begin at _two_ per cent! Name your coffins."

Newsie looked at the audience between the door and the stage. _I have to make contact somehow! Will they let me pass? Do I look monstery enough?_ Carefully, he eased the door open and slipped into the studio. A stagefrackle with a clipboard and a headset glanced at him, then jerked a thumb at the audience seats. Newsie nodded, and climbed onto the edge of a bench. _So far so good..._ The monsters sitting nearest him barely looked his way before returning their eager attention to the show. Newsie waited while Tonkin picked four more coffins from the monster-girls and each was opened to reveal a percentage figure; the corresponding numbers on a huge chalkboard hanging stage left were scratched out by a grinning webbed-toed thing clinging to the top of the board by its prehensile tail. When Snookie turned back to the audience, Newsie tried to wave at him surreptitiously, but just then the lights all turned red, and a phone rang loudly.

"Well, well, we all know who that is!" Snookie said, and the monsters laughed. Snookie picked up the phone; Newsie noticed a shadowy figure with hunched shoulders and what looked like two heads in a glassed-in booth above stage right. The host listened a moment, then hung up. "All right...the Butcher says...and I gotta tell you, this is the biggest first offer I've _ever_ seen him make...he says, he'll give you one internal organ to walk away from that coffin right now!"

Boos and cheers filled the studio. Tonkin looked worried and angry. "Why would I want that?" he demanded.

"Because it's one whole organ you'll get to keep _inside_ your body," Snookie explained.

The cat turned pale under his fur, eyes widening. "So...Meal, or No Meal?" Snookie asked.

Desperately Newsie waved his arms, realizing suddenly that in costume, in this dim reddish light, he probably looked like just another weird creature cheering. _Oh frog...but I can't take off the disguise! If they see me..._

"Uh...No Meal!" the cat said. The lights came back up, and the crowd cheered loudly.

"Okay...then you will have to pick another... _three_ coffins!" Snookie said. Shivering now that he realized the seriousness of the game, Tonkin was more careful in picking numbers; Newsie wondered how he could possibly tell which case held what percentage. _Is this just a random drawing? Just blind luck? I'll bet not one of those horrible little coffins holds a chance for him to go free!_ Feeling somewhat sorry for the former Nofrisko exec, Newsie shook his head. _Guess they don't spare their employees either. I wonder if he ever understood what he was in for._ Snookie called for each girl to open her coffin, and three more varying numbers were revealed and chalked off. The phone rang again, and the lights turned red. Annoyed, Newsie glared up, then suddenly realized this might be a chance for him to reveal himself without being too obvious, as every monster's attention was on the booth upstairs. Quickly, Newsie pulled off his mask, and waved again. Snookie turned toward the booth, however, completely missing Newsie's gesture...but Tonkin saw him. Feline eyes turned wide, then narrowed down to slivers. Hurriedly Newsie pulled his mask back on, fumbling with his glasses.

"All right, if you do _not_ accept this ridiculously insulting offer, you have to open three more coffins," Snookie informed Tonkin, "but if you want to, you _could_ be carried on a stretcher out of here with... _three_ internal organs and your ribcage still intact!"

"Well..." Tonkin said, taking a breath, but Snookie interrupted with a wide, patently false smile.

"And we'll hear your decision when we come back, on _Meal...or No Meal!"_

Newsie waited. Snookie walked offstage to get a drink of water. The crowd argued among themselves about how many body parts should be enough to tempt the contestant into taking the offer. Tonkin's gaze remained fixed on the Newsman, who fidgeted anxiously. Would the cat rat him out in an attempt to save his own neck? Would he tell Chester there was a Muppet in disguise in the studio? When the director cued everyone, Snookie fastened the smile back on his face, though his brown eyes held no trace of the excitement he tried to project in his voice: "So, Pembroke Tonkin has an offer on the table...along with salt, pepper, and some other basic condiments. Pembroke, tell us: will you take the meal offer and be our next tasty entree, or will you keep playing? I'll point out here, the one-hundred-per-cent coffin is still in play!"

"No Meal, Snookie," the cat huffed. As the lights shifted and the girl monsters clapped and blew kisses, Tonkin spoke up again, "I'd like to confer with my family before I pick the next coffins, if I may."

Snookie looked startled. "Your...your family?" He looked offstage. "You kidnapped his family too?"

"My...nephew...is sitting right up there," Tonkin purred, and with a languid paw pointed right at Newsie.

Snookie looked again at his director, shrugged, and beckoned. "Well, great! Hey, folks, another first – _living_ next of kin! Whaddaya know."

Newsie was hustled by the stagefrackle down to the platform. "And who do we have here?" Snookie asked, genuinely curious, looking from the raven to the cat.

Tonkin smoothed down his whiskers sleekly. "This is my nephew...Murrow. He works at the Health Department," he said, smiling.

Snookie gave Newsie a skeptical look. "Really? How odd. I met another guy with the same name and occupation just this morning. Wonder if they're related."

"Possibly," Tonkin purred. "Small world, and all that."

Newsie did his best to stand upright and look imposing, but his nerves quivered terribly at the sight of a few dozen monsters all staring right at him...and drooling. _It's the costume, it's the costume, they think you're a bird,_ he told himself...but then realized his species probably wouldn't matter all that much. This crowd looked ravenous enough to eat each other after they'd finished off the contestant. "All right, let's move on!" Snookie said with a shrug. "Choose your coffins!"

Tonkin leaned close to Newsie, and hissed, "What the slimy frog are you _doing_ here? That is the most _ridiculous_ disguise I've ever seen – worse than your inspector act!"

"They have my girlfriend," Newsie muttered in reply. "Have you seen her? Red hair, tall, lovely, could kick _your_ sorry furry butt into next week's litterbox?"

"No one like that, no," Tonkin murmured. "Will you get me out of here? I can make it worth your while."

"I doubt you have anything I'd want," Newsie growled. "But I'll do what I can if you'll help _me."_

"Fair do," Tonkin said, and turned back to Snookie. "Numbers twenty-two, fifteen, and forty!"

The coffins were opened with much dramatic flourish. Every monster in the house groaned when the one-hundred-per-cent figure turned up and was marked off the board. The phone rang just as Newsie was trying to signal to his cousin with a nod and a waggle of his fingers, out of direct sight of the audience. Newsie stood frustrated while Snookie talked to the mysterious monster on the phone. Tonkin noticed. "What are you trying to do, make it obvious you're not a turkey?" he hissed.

"That Muppet's my cousin!" Newsie whispered. "He's the whole reason I started this investigation! He's been missing for a long time!"

Tonkin looked between them. "I do see something of a family resemblance...you're both _stupid_ enough to get involved in monstrous affairs."

"So what does that make the guy who _worked_ for them?"

"Wiser now," Tonkin muttered. "Talk to him!"

"What?"

Snookie turned back to Tonkin and Newsie. "Well, it's not a fantastic offer...after all, the hundred-per-cent number is now out of play. But I think you should consider it! You've got a lot of coffins to go, and anything could happen..." He smiled at the cat, his eyes turning puzzled as he saw Tonkin and the raven elbowing one another and glaring. "The Butcher's offer is—"

"Uh, ahem," Newsie said, trying to make his voice sound hoarser and lower than normal, "Uh, Snookie, is it? Tonkin says No Meal, and I'm going to choose the next coffins for him!"

"Er...hey, buddy, getting a little ahead of the game here," Snookie said, his eyes narrowing. "Heh, heh, it's considered _polite_ to at least _allow_ the host to run the show! So, Pembroke, the Butcher's offer is...what we'll hear when we come right back! Stay tuned to _Meal or No Meal!"_ The audience clapped and began talking loudly, arguing whether the cat's nephew was considered part of the entree or just an appetizer or a separate course altogether. Newsie shuddered, but then Tonkin shoved him forward, giving him a significant look and nod when a startled Newsman glanced back.

Newsie cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and suddenly Snookie was in his face, angry. "Listen, you featherbrained jerk, so far today I have been smeared in mud on _Wipe-In!,_ nearly had my nose clawed off on _Leopardy!,_ and I'm scheduled for something positively horrific that I don't even know the details of yet for _Monsters Tonight!_ This is the _one_ taping I have today which doesn't involve me being eaten, mauled, or humiliated – that's the stupid cat's job here, and yours too since you stepped up to the plate! Now the _least_ you can do is shut the frog up and let _me_ run my show, okay?"

"Chester!" Newsie said hurriedly, "I'm your cousin Aloysius!"

The weary, angry Muppet's jaw fell open. "What?" he choked.

"Hey! He's gettin' away!" someone yelled.

Newsie whirled, frightened, and saw Pembroke Tonkin leaping for the nearest set piece, trying to climb it to the ceiling trusses. "Son of a..." Newsie growled. He looked back at Snookie, who was staring at him. All the monsters in the audience were roaring, howling, and scrambling out of their seats, trampling the stagefrackles to reach the set. Newsie grabbed Snookie's hand. "It's me! Did you get my note?"

"What kind of sick joke is this?" Snookie demanded, pulling away. "Carl put you up to this, didn't he!"

"Who? No!" Desperate, Newsie pulled off his mask, jamming his glasses back on his nose. "It's _me,_ Chester! We have to get out of here! Quick, while they're all—"

"Muppet!" Tonkin yowled from the ceiling, clinging by two paws and trying to heft his weighty bottom over the edge of a truss. The monsters climbing one another to reach him froze, and the cat pointed frantically at Newsie. _"Muppet!"_

Half the crowd turned, saw Newsie, and gaped. "Oh frog," Newsie and Snookie gasped together. Then Snookie gave his cousin a hard shove toward the door. "Run, you idiot! _Run!"_

"But—" Newsie cried, stumbling, but then a snarling thing took a swipe at him. He ducked, and looked back. Snookie was clambering into a big metal cage labeled _For Host in Case of Unruly Audience._ He gestured at Newsie to go, his eyes wide and desperate. "Eep!" Newsie gulped, nearly clobbered by a swinging chunk of bleacher; the ogre wielding it overbalanced and toppled, but more monsters rushed toward him. Newsie yelled at Snookie, "I'll find you! Stay alive! I _will_ find you!"

The door slammed in the face of the first monster to lunge after Newsie; the others crumpled atop him, and it took them a couple of minutes to untangle and wrench the door open. Snookie shivered inside his cage, watching as the cat was summarily knocked down from the truss with a thrown, screaming goblin. He turned his head, unwilling to see the results; the munching sounds were bad enough. The show director, a particularly large Frackle with an upward-curving snout, poked him through the bars, making him jump. "Say, who _was_ dat bird guy, anyhow?" the director asked.

Snookie took a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic heart. "That was...the bravest, _dumbest_ Mohican ever to try a rescue mission down here," he said.

"Ah," said the director. He scratched his topfur, indifferently watching cat fur raining down center stage, and admiring the girls as they giggled and jumped into the fray. "Say, you, uh...ya think ya can get him back? We seem ta be kinda short a player now. Mohican, ya say...ya know, da boss been _sayin'_ we needs more diversifyin' around here!"

Snookie closed his eyes, ignoring it all as best he could. Someone yelled for another bottle of catsup.


	55. Chapter 48

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT. _In which Rhonda gets her moxie back; Gina loses some jewelry but gains a coat; and the rats hitch a ride._

At the next corner, Rhonda paused for a breath, flattening her back against the slimy wall. A ruined dress was the least of her worries at the moment. She looked at the bulky rat in a white tee next to her, catching his breath as well. "Ya hangin' in there, kid?" Bubba asked her.

Rhonda nodded. She peered into the near-darkness behind them; she could hear groans and gasps as the rest of the motley rodent band regrouped in the corridor. "How...how many you think we lost so far?" Rhonda whispered.

Bubba shook his head grimly. "I ain't thinkin' 'bout dat right now, just how ta get past da next brute."

"I hate war movies," Rhonda muttered. She dared a peek around the corner. "Two guards, but they're playing checkers," she told Bubba. "If everyone can move quietly, maybe..."

He nodded, and muttered to the skinny rat next to him, "Yo, Shakes. Two uglies in here, so keep quiet and heads down. Pass it on." As the rat whisper chain traveled down the corridor, he turned back to Rhonda. "You said you had schematics of dis place? Any idea where we are right now?"

She shook her head. "Our informant never made it into this part of the tunnels. We're running blind." So far, in their wild escape attempt, the rats had run through some kind of pantry, a monster soup kitchen populated by grungy, filthy, smelly things...and then there were the patrons...ending up racing through some kind of bunkhouse, where one careless rat had tripped over a soda can on the floor and triggered an outcry of monsters all waking up famished. Rhonda shuddered; she didn't think she'd _ever_ forget the carnage of the short but vicious Battle of the Bugly Barracks. "If we can find a way to the roof of that hotel upstairs, we gotta shut down their transmitter! But if not...maybe at least we can go warn the Muppets! They're all coming to the hotel for some charity thing, and none of them have any idea-"

"It's a trap!" Bubba agreed, eyes widening. "You're right. Someone's gotta warn 'em!"

"Aaagh! Trap? Where?" one of the rats nearest shrieked; before his panic could spread, however, Bubba grabbed his nose and muffled his mouth in a meaty paw. He held the struggling rat effortlessly, sighing and shaking his head.

"Awright, so, we try ta work our way up and out, yeah?"

Rhonda nodded. "That's the idea...if we can get past the rest of these creeps."

Bubba gave the frenzied rat a hard squeeze, and dropped him dazed to the floor. He dusted off his paws, took a deep breath, and nodded back. Together he and Rhonda took another look around the corner. The small room beyond, really just a space between the juncture of three different tunnels, held a rock table at which sat a goblin and a large purple-furred thing with a flat head and long arms. The pair seemed engrossed in a board game. "Which way ya think?" Bubba muttered.

Rhonda shrugged helplessly. "Heck if I know! If ya smell anything like fresh air, head for it."

The burly rat chuckled. "Don't t'ink dat's gonna be easy down here. Awright, you punks, get ready to hustle! Remember to keep your heads down and your feet movin' no matter what!" The gathered rodents blinked, shivered, or gulped, but they all knew there was no going back now; they'd stirred up too much in the rooms behind them. At least no alarm seemed to have traveled ahead of them. At the table, the goblin began protesting an illegal move the furry thing had made, and a loud argument followed. "Dat's our cue," Bubba rumbled. He offered a fist-bump for luck to Rhonda. She looked askance at him, but reluctantly touched her closed paw to his. "See ya on da udder side," Bubba told her with a wink, and suddenly dashed into the room, keeping close to the nearest wall.

Rhonda took a breath and ran after him. In the middle of the room he stopped, lifting his large nose for a sniff, and then waved the troops in the direction of the narrower of the two rocky tunnels. Rhonda ran to the tunnel opening, checking for any sign of monsters ahead; the way seemed clear. She beckoned as well, and the rats darted by ones and twos across the open space to the relative safety of the dark corridor. All seemed to go well until the goblin upset the game board with a snarl; marbles rained down everywhere. A skinny rat in legwarmers and a headband was in the center of the room when the furry purple thing bent down to see where the game pieces had gone and spotted him. The rat froze a moment, then bolted for the opposite tunnel. Rhonda began shoving the rats already in the smaller tunnel farther on, yelling at them, "Go! Go! Don't look back!"

Bubba tried to go after the stray rat, howling, _"Adriiiiaaaannn!"_ Rhonda leaped onto his back, tugging at his arms.

"No! No! It's too late! We have to leave him! Run!" she urged him. Bubba struggled, not listening, until the goblin swung around and saw him...and hopped off its seat with an evil smile. Bubba realized there was no way he'd make it across the room, and with a groan of pure grief, turned and ran along with the other rats. All of them fled, squeaking, into the darkness of the tunnel, terrified at the thought of what might have happened to their unfortunate colleague...and what could easily happen to them.

They ran pell-mell for several minutes; when some of the weaker rats began dropping, gasping, Rhonda called a halt. Exhausted, terrified rats simply plopped onto the muddy floor. Rhonda, panting, looked up at the stoic-faced Bubba. "I'm...I'm sorry about your friend," she offered.

"Ehh...he's a good runner...maybe he'll make it," Bubba mumbled. He fell silent. The quiet sound of dripping water echoed ahead, under the soft noises of rats trying to catch their collective breath.

"So much for my hose," Rhonda grumbled, examining the spatters and tears in the formerly-pristine nylons. "I _hate_ mud."

Bubba's whiskers twitched. "Uh...that ain't mud."

"Ewwww," Rhonda whined. "I didn't need to hear that! I really, _really_ didn't!"

Bubba's gaze followed the line of mud farther ahead, where a very dim light allowed him to differentiate the path along the bottom of the tunnel from the rest of it. He scratched his crew cut. "Uhhh...hey sweetcakes."

Irritated, Rhonda glared at him. "I'm gonna pretend you did _not_ just say that because I am _way_ too out of breath to hurt you right now."

He shrugged. "Ya do what ya gotta do. But I was just wonderin'...when did the hallway turn round?"

"What do you mean? We didn't turn around! Some a' these honor students may be prone to that kind of _complete_ navigational fail, but I—"

"No, no, no," the burly rat muttered, touching a startlingly gentle paw to Rhonda's chin and lifting it up for her to see. "I mean, da tunnel turned _round."_

Her angry retort died on her tongue. "Round...hey! And the...the _mud,"_ she said, glaring at Bubba to warn him not to correct her, "we must be close to the sewers!"

Several rats nearby perked up. "Sewers? Didja say sewers?"

"Woohoo! We're home!"

"I'm comin', Auntie Em!"

Bubba suddenly shoved Rhonda to the side and held her safely out of the way as a torrent of rodents scrambled past, whooping and squeaking, rushing toward the comfort of smelly pipes. "Wait!" Rhonda yelled, "No, stop! We still have to warn...everyone..." She fell silent, dismayed. One last rat on crutches loped past slowly, giving her not a glance as he headed along the pipe and out of sight. Rhonda's shoulders sagged. "Well fer cryin' out loud, would ya look at 'em! Deserting the cause like...like..."

"I hear ya," Bubba rumbled. He sniffed at the light breeze wafting down the tunnel. "Hey, real air!"

"I am _not_ sniffing that."

"Naw, naw, not like that. Dere's fresh air somewhere up ahead." He gave her a long, serious look, then nodded and straightened his bulky back. "Awright. What say we go find out where dis maze ends up and get outta here?"

Rhonda quirked her head sideways at him. "You're not running off to join your buddies?"

He shrugged. "Always was a sucker for a dame in distress. Come on, just a little farther, huh? You can do it."

Somewhat mollified, Rhonda resumed their trek, picking up her pace as she went, but Bubba matched her easily. He seemed to have long endurance as well as brute strength, and Rhonda's opinion of the jock mellowed slightly. "So, what's the plan once we find an exit to da street?" he asked.

"Well," she sighed, "I guess if we can't get near that transmitter from here, the least we can do is warn Kermit. If we can catch him or his first-LT Scooter, they can spread the word and keep everyone away from Creep Central."

"Dat's a good plan," Bubba agreed. The two of them hurried on for several minutes in silence, guided by Bubba's large nose; suddenly Rhonda thought she might understand her mother's fascination with men of generous proboscis. _Still don't see the 'handsome' part, but letting someone ELSE do the sniffing is sure useful,_ she decided. "Ya doin' okay dere, doll?" Bubba asked.

"Doin' just fine, Rocky," she shot back. To her surprise, the husky rat chuckled.

"Rocky," he said, grinning. "You're all right, doll. Ya got moxie."

Rhonda was surprised again to find herself blushing. She snapped her gaze straight ahead, and together the rodents jogged for freedom.

"Aunt Piggy! Aunt Piggy!"

Miss Piggy turned from her Art Deco round vanity mirror to find a fashion disaster: one small green amphibian bouncing on his toeflippers in a bright orange tee-shirt and purple jeans. She did her best not to openly wince. "Yes, Robin dear?"

He blanched. "Whoa. Cool mask!"

Piggy couldn't frown very well with the super-refining-mud-masque slathered all over her snout and cheeks. "Different kind of mask, kiddo. Is that...is that the..."

"The _official movie promo shirt!_ Yes! Isn't it super _neato?"_ Robin gushed, bouncing around in a tight circle so she could briefly glimpse the whole design. "I'll be the only kid at school with this! I told Uncle Kermit I'll wear it _every day_ until the new movie comes out!"

"Well, that's sweet, but you might want to wait until we've actually _filmed_ it," Piggy replied. "Assuming your uncle ever gets a location we can actually _shoot_ at before winter..."

"I thought he and Scooter already picked out five or six places?"

"That's what I mean," Piggy growled. "Um...where is your _wundermus_ uncle, anyway?"

"Oh, he's downstairs with Bobo, making sure he knows the candy is for the trick-or-treaters." Robin leaned closer and whispered, "I think maybe Bobo could eat _all_ of it, even the pumpkin Mallomars!"

"Well, he'd better not," Piggy grumbled. "I didn't arrange the best candy haul on the block just for the big dumb furball to chow down! Remind him _moi_ arranged for a super sub to be delivered from Bruno's Deli at six for him." Although Piggy agreed it would be classier to have someone remaining at the townhouse tonight to greet costumed children for the traditonal candy ritual, she felt Kermit's choice of doormen left a bit to be desired. _Namely self-control._ "And tell Kermit _moi_ wishes to see him _immediatement!"_

"That means right away, right?"

"You bet it does, little frog. Hop to!"

Within five minutes, just as Piggy was laving off the mud facial, a voice quipped from the master suite's doorway behind her: "I still don't see why it has to be thirty-dollar-a-pound imported _French_ mud."

"How does _vous_ think I've managed this perfect complexion?" Piggy retorted, eyes narrowing as her frog slipped up behind her and put his arms around her. "Don't you _dare_ try and cozy up to me! I see what you're wearing, frog!"

Puzzled, Kermit drew back, looking down at his tee-shirt. "It's...it's the official promo shirt, Piggy. We agreed we're _all_ going to wear them. It'll present a unified look and hopefully excite some interest for—"

"You don't need to explain publicity to _me,_ frog."

Noting the double use of the word she most often used as a perjorative, Kermit watched while his wife removed the protective bathrobe from her creamy shoulders. He nodded appreciatively. "Now that's a cheerful look!"

Piggy glared at him in the mirror, adjusting the straps of her sleekly satin, gold-hued brassiere. "This is cheerful? Are we looking in the same mirror?"

Kermit tried his cheekiest grin. "Well, they're certainly making _me_ cheerful."

"Hmf," she snorted. She fussed with skin cream a bit, then sighed, turning around to meet those smiling eyes. "Kermie...must we really all don such...such _gauche_ attire? I mean, I thought, since this _is_ Halloween, I could wear that simply stunning black cocktail dress, and do my hair up with that pretty spiderweb-lace scarf and some black gems, and go as Audrey?" She picked up the foot-long Bakelite holder, sporting a bit of licorice instead of a cigarette, and posed to show him her idea.

Kermit shook his head. "Piggy, honey...that does sound really cute, but...we did agree we were _all_ going to wear the shirts. Scooter was very thorough in getting everyone the perfect sizes! Robin and I are wearing ours, Scooter and Sara will have theirs, even Rizzo and Pepe agreed..."

"Well no one consulted _moi!"_ Piggy snapped. She frowned, still fiddling with the long holder in her perfectly manicured fingers. Kermit was immediately struck with an idea for a romantic comedy: _'Pigfest at Tiffany's'..._ but much as he liked that idea, now was not the time.

"Sweetie, honey..." he began.

The pig would have none of it. "Don't you sweetie me," she growled. _"Vous_ and yarn-head made a _wardrobe decision_ without my input!"

 _Ah._ Realizing the crux of the problem, Kermit gently stroked her bare shoulders. She tried to brush him off at first, but he was gently persistent. He stood in front of her and caressed her until she finally looked up at him, her blue eyes unhappy. "Piggy," he explained softly, "this is for the film. For the studio. For _us._ All of us. And believe me...it may just be a silly tee shirt...but no one can fill out a shirt like you. It's not about looking great for the cameras...it's about looking _unified,_ as a _team._ Just for tonight...would you wear the silly tee shirt?" He crouched slowly so they were eye-to eye, bringing his mouth closer to hers. "For me?"

Piggy felt her frown slowly giving way. "You could have asked my opinion before you ordered them. And whose idea was _orange?"_

"It _is_ Halloween," he reminded her, bringing his lips ever closer. "And anyway..." He kissed her, gently, then with more pressure, until she relented and opened her mouth to him. He tasted her sweet tongue, feeling her shoulders relax under his hands. When he finally pulled away, her eyes were closed, and she seemed to have forgotten her anger. In a whisper, Kermit finished, _"You_ only would've said no."

Her eyes flew open, but the frog was already bounding for the door. "Oooooh! You—you slimy _frog_ you!"

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission," he taunted, grinning, as she shot to her feet.

"Oh yeah? Well better start practicing, frog, because you're gonna be doing a whole lotta asking!"

"I should make sure Bobo knows he's supposed to listen for the doorbell, even if he's camped in the family room," Kermit said, backing away, _fairly_ sure she wouldn't charge out of the suite before she finished dressing. "Hey, better get that shirt on, dear! The guys will be here any minute!"

"The _guys?_ I thought we had a limo booked!"

"This is a _charity_ event," Kermit said, sounding a little too smug for Piggy's taste. "It would be in bad taste to show up flaunting wealth, wouldn't it?"

"This _shirt_ is in bad taste! I look awful in that shade of pumpkin! And is that...is that supposed to be _me_ on the back?"

"We'll be downstairs," Kermit said, heading that direction quickly as one incensed pig stared at the cartoonish drawing on the back of the shirt.

Piggy glared at the empty doorway. "Oh he's gonna need some _charity_ all right," she growled, pulling on the shirt, unwilling to admit just how nicely it showed off her curves. She tromped to the first of her two walk-in-closets for a pair of stylish black jeans, determined to do what she could to save her stylish reputation in the face of such a gaudy color. "I wonder if Shriner's Hospital admits grown frogs?"

"On your feet," something growled.

Gina struggled to open her eyes fully, feeling nauseous and with a splitting skull. Her mouth felt strange when she spoke, "Screw you, I'm not a Marine..." She sat up, instinctively putting a hand to her forehead, then jerked back. "Ow! What the..." Shocked, she discovered tiny claws jutting from all her fingers...and her hands were coated in reddish fuzz. Trying to wipe it off, she noticed the fuzz became thicker and longer as it went up her arms...and over her shoulders...and her legs... Dark scarlet fur covered every part of her she could see, and she realized in horror it probably covered the places under the silly frilly dress, as well. Her head jerked up to glare at the long-tusked guard waiting for her to get up. "What the **** did you _do_ to me?" she cried, hearing her voice too rough.

The guard grinned. Suddenly that smelly thing in the pirate hat was beside her, grabbing her arm. "Ahhh! Such a marrrrvelous shange for ze bettair, _mon chere!_ Finalee, you are rrready to win ze hand of our swinging bachelor Gustar!" He paused, then admitted, "Well, maybe not ze _hand_ as zuch..."

"What the frog did you creeps do to me? _Change me back!"_ Gina demanded, panic rising.

"Zat's odd," Pew mused. "Arre you not all aqivair with ze desire, _mon chere?_ Does zis handsome bachelor not excite every beautiful bone in zat sexy boday?"

Gina stood, leaning threateningly over the director. "No and oh _****_ no! You go get that freak doctor and tell him if I'm not back to normal in _five minutes_ I'll...I'll _use_ these claws on him!"

Pew chuckled, waggling a finger at her. "Ah hah hah! No no, mah _petite chat!_ No flirting with anyone besides your intended...and of course _moi!"_ Before Gina could retort, Pew grabbed her with surprisingly strong hands and dragged her, stumbling, from the cot where she'd lain to stand next to the quivering, pulsating glob of happy bachelor. Applause met her, and Gina looked up, startled, to find a studio audience of dozens of freakish creatures whistling and hooting appreciatively at her. Feeling naked, she reflexively touched her necklace...the necklace that always...she felt around frantically.

 _It's gone! Those idiots took off my necklace!_ She glared, frightened, at the grinning director and the leering blob. _Wait. Maybe that's not a bad thing. When Newsie finds me..._ But she had no guarantee her shy Muppet would even be able to get past the front door of this place, assuming it had one. _It's crawling with monsters down here. They'll eat him alive! Oh, Newsie, sweetie...please..._ She wasn't sure if she should wish for a daring rescue or not. The last thing she wanted was to put her beloved in danger. _Should try to get out by myself...but..._ She looked again at her arms, feeling ill. _Can't let him see me like this! He'll freak!_ She felt decidedly freakish herself.

"Aaaand now, _mon freres,_ we shall see who Gustar will be marrying tomorrow!" Pew shouted, and the audience cheered. Gustar beamed, little ripples coursing through his jelly. "Gustar has picked ze final four contestants!" More cheering.

"Contestants?" Gina asked, and again felt sharp things around her tongue. "Ow..." _D—it my teeth, they did something to my teeth?_ Angrily, she glanced around, looking to see how close the guards were. Maybe if she used these awful claws to rip apart the blob-thing, they'd take her threat seriously... She felt something smack the back of her leg, and whirled. "Hey, quit touching, you—" But no one was behind her. Turning again, baffled, she saw a red furry thing swishing at the corner of her eye. She froze. _A tail? Oh my god what do I look like?_ Positive she didn't want to know – and certainly didn't want Newsie to know either – she glared at Pew again. "You're dead meat, creep," she growled under her breath.

He heard, and snorfled a laugh through that thick snout. "Latair, you sexy thang! So let us see who else will be competing for ze honair of being Mrs Blob!"

Three other creatures sashayed onto the set. One was blonde, with a huge alligator mouth and outrageous curves, in a bikini top and sarong. Another could barely see past the thick curtain of long purple fur covering her head to toe...and her toes looked more like giant bird-feet. The third sported neck-flaps like some prehistoric thing; she raised them to hiss and spit at the audience, and a monster in the front row sizzled and fainted in sheer acidic delight. "Gustar, ah see you have picked Susan, Susan, Susan, and Susan! What excellent choysez, mah friend!"

The blob nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah Pew, I thought hard about which girl I'd most like to swallow and completely incorporate into my bodily mass, and, well, _these_ ladies just stood out, y'know?"

"Zat zey do!" Pew agreed. He leered at the Susan with the bikini. "Ah see some of zem even remembaired to brush _all_ their fangs! Personal hygiene is soooo important, non?"

"You should try it sometime," Gina muttered. She kept stealing anxious glances all around, but the room seemed to be _teeming_ with monsters. How far would she get, if she grabbed Pew in a headlock and demanded the antidote? Wouldn't they just all jump her anyway? Dismayed, she realized the better option might be to stay put until she saw a chance to get Pew or the disgusting blob alone, and show them she wasn't squeamish about sharp objects... "Wait, my name's not Susan!" she said loudly, suddenly realizing she was being included in that group.

Gustar shook with laughter. "Sure it is! I just _love_ Susans!" He wobbled a bit as he leaned toward Pew. "All the _other_ Susans like being Susan now...what's wrong with _her?"_ he whispered.

Pew shook his head. "Ah am not sure, _mon frere_...perhaps we will ask ze doctair to give her anozair shot later!" Raising his voice, he turned to the audience and the cameras. "Ah am happy to announce zat, as zis is ze last episode of _'Ah Married a Monstair!'_ before ze finale – and ze wedding!—tomorrow, all ze contestants who are _not_ ze winnair today will be going home with...ze audience!"

Wild whooping and howling filled the studio. Gina winced, trembling at the horrible sight of so many bulging eyes and furry bellies and clutching, clawing hands. "Oh I don't think so," she gulped, though her voice sounded faint.

"Forget it, sister!" growled a deep voice; startled, Gina realized it was the purple-furred Cousin It Susan. A stubby thumb emerged from the fur to point inward. "That blob's aalllll _mine!"_

"You can have it," Gina muttered, but looked back at the audience. She swallowed dryly. _Go home with the blob...or fall into their paws?_ She couldn't suppress a shudder.

"Aww, Susan! Aren't you in it to win me?" Gustar whined, glopping a slimy appendage onto her arm a moment. Gina shook him off immediately, but little droplets of jelly lingered on the fur.

"Ahve _course_ she is!" Pew cried, clapping Gustar on the back...and then struggling to free his hand. "Ah...ungh...we'll be...right back with ze first trial for ze ladies...ungh...on _'Ah Married a Monstair!',_ so don't go away!" Frustrated, he yanked repeatedly, but his hand was stuck and sliding ever deeper into Gustar's gelatin. "Gustar, _mon ami,_ let _go!"_

Gina sucked in a breath, hating the prickly feel of her skin, the tail, the teeth, the whole appalling situation. _Have to get out of this. Have to get one of these creeps alone so I have a chance, force them to fix this...oh, Aloysius, I'm so sorry! I don't want you down here! Let me fight my way out and come find you, my love!_ But as she allowed the stagehand monsters to guide her to some kind of jungle-gym obstacle course along with the other monstrous girls, she suddenly understood _they'd_ all probably gone through the same ordeal she had...and they, unlike her, all seemed _eager_ for the task, and even eager for the dubious prize of marriage to a blob! _Oh my god...what happened to them? Is it going to happen to me?_ Frightened, she looked back at Gustar, who waved cheerily. _Nope. It's still disgusting._ Somewhat relieved she still had control of her own thoughts, she shivered and braced herself for whatever nonsense she'd be asked to do to prove her worthiness as a bride. She touched her neck again, and half-hoped her Muppet _did_ try to rescue her...and unwittingly brought disaster and chaos with him.

It might actually be better than _this._

Rhonda stood panting, waiting while Bubba hoisted himself out of the storm drain. They'd climbed up a cold, dripping shaft to emerge in the runoff tunnel just below a street, and somehow even after the exhausting ascent, Bubba had enough strength to lift Rhonda up to the gutter opening. She looked in all directions uncertainly, wrapping her arms around herself. Her sweater-dress was soaked through, and though the sky overhead looked clear and lovely blue, and the snow all melted, the temperature was low enough to make the rat positive she'd need a hot soak and a hefty dose of vitamin C to ward off a cold. She sneezed once, and glumly fished a packet of tissues from a pocket, but they were drenched as well. "Lovely," she grumbled.

"Ain't it though," Bubba said, looking up at the sky. He dragged himself from the gutter, and vainly brushed off his shirt, which now appeared more brown than dirty white. He looked curiously up and down the street. "Huh. Looks like da Bowery. Hey, I got some buds over at O'Malley's what works out with me sometimes, if ya wanna stop in, maybe get some dry duds on ya?"

"We don't have time," Rhonda said. Her watch had died somewhere in the tunnels, probably when she fell into a puddle of something she didn't even want to contemplate. The light slanting through the forest of buildings, however, seemed low to her, and tinged with red. "Cripes, it's almost sunset! We gotta find Kermit and the guys and tell 'em not to go to the Hotel Creepy!"

"Awright den," Bubba agreed. He looked once up and down the busy street. Some passersby already had costumes on: skeletons and witches and Marilyn Monroe all strolled along, heading toward the Village where the big parade would soon be starting. Suddenly Bubba grabbed Rhonda's paw, slapping it against his chest. "Hang on!"

"Are you crazy? What the heck are you—waaaaagh!" Rhonda shrieked, abruptly clinging with all her might to the stronger rat when he flung himself into the street. Instead of splatting onto the pavement, however, he'd timed his jump perfectly; Rhonda cautiously opened her eyes to find the scenery whizzing by at an alarming rate. She blinked, and looked ahead: cars and trucks loomed and just as quickly slipped by. She craned her neck up. _A bicycle? What the freaking holy Tour de Midtown?_ She gave Bubba a look of astonishment. "You grabbed a _bike courier?"_ she demanded.

He glanced down at her, straining with both hands to hang onto the satchel swinging off the hip of the unheeding cyclist. "Just please tell me dis is da right direction," he grunted.

"Uptown...yeah." Rhonda dug her claws into Bubba's shirt, but he didn't complain. "Uh...we want Park and Seventy-ninth."

"Ain't dat da swanky place we went last time?"

"What?" A memory of clambering up Bubba's back to teeter uncomfortably on Rizzo's shoulders brightened in her mind, and she realized, embarrassed, she'd all but erased that night, this past spring. "Uh...yeah...you remember their townhouse?"

Bubba chuckled. "How could I forget? Dat pig dame kept lookin' at me like she thought I was gonna chew on her French Rococo Revival console table!"

"You...you know antiques?" Rhonda managed, wondering if this was even the same jock she'd dragged along that night to retrieve the wayward Newsman.

"Eh, I got a buddy who does some carpentry an' restoration stuff. He's a beaver, but he's an okay joe."

"A beaver."

"Yep." When the messenger swerved left, they held on, but then Bubba said, "Dis is our stop, doll. Jump!"

Terrified, Rhonda closed her eyes and leaped for the sidewalk, but realized too late she wasn't going to make it. The concrete rushed toward her. She flung her arms in front of her, hoping the damage wouldn't be horrible, but instead found her breath knocked out and muscular arms around her waist. When the dust settled, and she'd coughed what felt like half the city's smog from her lungs, she looked around to find herself cushioned on the sidewalk by a large rat. Discomfited, she got to shaky feet, and Bubba stretched up behind her.

"Whoo! Some way ta travel, huh? Dose guys go faster than da subway even," Bubba remarked, grinning, seeming unaffected by their hard landing. He nodded ahead. "We go north again here. Just walk close to da curb; anoddah one'll be along any minute."

"You...you do this a lot?"

He quirked a puzzled eyebrow at her. "Don't you? Wait...don't tell me you're onea dem fancy rats what's gotta take a _cab_ everywhere!" He grinned.

"Well, they're easier on the wardrobe," Rhonda grumbled.

"Guess so," he mused, looking at her ruined dress from the rear. "Hey, ya know ya got a nice patch growin' back over your..."

"I see a bike," Rhonda interrupted, unhappy at the idea of another round on Mr Rat's Wild Ride, but anxious about the lateness of the hour. "We have to get to Kermit's fast!"

"I hear ya," Bubba said, and helped her onto his back, hanging onto his shoulders. "Hold on tight!"

Several terrifying minutes later, they rolled into the gutter a couple of blocks from the quiet, elegant row of townhouses where the Frogs kept up their east-coast residence. Rhonda flushed, humiliated, doing her best to ignore the stares of the rich kids out with their nannies trick-or-treating. Bubba strode along unworriedly at her side, staring with unashamed curiosity at the three- and four-story townhouses, each brownstone stoop done up with colorful swags of leaves or fabric ghosts or grinning pumpkins. "Huh. Wonder what kinda treats dese guys give out?"

"Later!" Rhonda urged, trotting as fast as she could, although her chest felt about to collapse. "Look, up on the next block, see that bus? That's them! Come on!" She took a deep breath, then did something she rarely permitted anyone in her company to do, much less herself: she dropped to all fours and ran like heck.

Bubba paced her, jogging on two feet, and Rhonda gritted her teeth and decided, _When this is over, I'm going to the gym EVERY day, not just Mondays and Wednesdays!_ She stood back up as they approached the lingering, noisy bus; in the back seat, she saw a red mop of hair moving animatedly and a pair of pink ears nodding back. A roll of drums and the twang of a guitar told her the Mayhem were probably occupying the vehicle as well. Kermit hopped down the stairs from the townhouse, hurrying for the bus. "Kermit!" Rhonda yelled, but her own voice sounded more like a croak than the frog's usually did. She sucked in a deep breath, putting all her energy into one last sprint, the bus two houses away...one... _"Keerrrrmiiiiit!"_ she shouted – right as the driver gunned the engine, the frog slammed the door as he jumped in, and the bus backfired and screeched into the street. Desperately Rhonda waved, yelling, and Bubba raised a paw as well, but the bus sped off in a cloud of gray exhaust, leaving two tired and dispirited rats choking on the curb.

"Dammit!" Rhonda cried aloud. "They're heading right for certain _doom!"_

"Dis is like da movies," Bubba mused, slowly catching his breath. "I always wanna yell at 'em, 'Don't go in da basement!', and dey never listen..." He shook his head. "Hey, whaddabout dat other guy? The LT?"

"Scooter," Rhonda panted. "No good...he's on the bus."

Bubba cast a sharp eye around. "Okay. Don't sweat it, doll. I see a ride. We'll go after 'em."

"Maybe we could break inta one of these places and find a phone..." Rhonda shot him a wide-eyed look. "Oh no. No no no. No more bikes!"

"Who said anything about a bike?" Bubba put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, high and earsplitting; Rhonda winced. Barking preceded a large cocker spaniel. Rhonda stared first at the dog, which was done up in an orange jingly collar with jeweled pumpkins and harnessed to a Red Flyer wagon carrying a lit jack-o'lantern, and then at Bubba when he hoisted himself atop the grinning vegetable.

"Are you freaking _kidding_ me?" she demanded. "Where did _you_ learn to drive a dog-and-cart?"

"I've done some extra work in westerns," Bubba shrugged. At Rhonda's slack jaw, he chuckled. "Oh, _I'm_ sorry, did you think dat alien flick with da Whatever was my first go-round in Hollywood?" With a cocky grin, he held out a paw to her.

Grudgingly, Rhonda took it and climbed into the wagon. "Sure you can drive this thing?"

"Piece a' cake. Yo, Jingles, giddyup." Bubba flicked the reins, and the dog trotted down the street back the way they'd come. A large woman in a party dress came running from a side yard at the corner, calling out for a Mr Puffies, and Bubba clicked his teeth and snapped the reins again, urging the dog into a run. He offered a meaty bicep to Rhonda as she tried to hang on in the bouncing wagon, looking pleased with himself.

 _Well well,_ Rhonda thought, amazed. _Can't judge a rat by his fur, they said..._

One spaniel, one juttering red toy wagon, one bouncing jack-o'lantern, two rats, and a stumbling dowager made their own little parade toward Chinatown.

Bobo flipped through channel after channel, stopping on what looked like some sort of action movie, or maybe horror: people were screaming in the streets, and the cops were rounding them up in riot gear. _Looks good,_ Bobo decided, settling his generous rear more comfortably on a squeaking loveseat in the Frog family room. His catcher's-mitt-sized paw rummaged absently through the huge basket of treats on the table before him. "Hum hum hum...pumpkin taffy? Now that's just _weird_...oh, hey! Mallomars!" Unwrapping two at a time contentedly, he returned his attention to the screen.

Some short guy with a long parsnip of a nose was barking at the camera, "And the Police team is heading off yet _another_ offensive try by the Street Crazies! I've never _seen_ anything like this! No matter how many gibbering, insanely reeling, poorly dressed people the cops haul off, more seem to crop up! What's _your_ take on this phenomenon, uh..." Realizing he had no one to offer color commentary but himself, the announcer scuttled to the opposite side of the scene and took up the job. "Well, Lewis, I gotta say this comes as a _complete_ blindsiding surprise to me as well! They say the full moon brings out the nutjobs, and Halloween is just as bad, but typically that involves public drunks, flash mobs and people just _flashing,_ and multiple arrests for publicly impersonating Donald Trump – not this kind of random screaming!" He paused, listening to the wails of the housewives in headscarves and teenagers half-costumed, as if they'd all run out of doors in the middle of getting dressed for the evening. "Uh, what exactly is it they're all screaming, anyway?"

The doorbell rang. Bobo sat staring at the television, trying to figure out if he'd seen this movie before. "Looks like they shot it here in the city," he mumbled, spotting the Chrysler building in the skyline across from the residential neighborhood where the action was going on. The doorbell rang again, and this time the bear's ears perked at the sound of children shouting _Trick or treat!_

"Oh!" he exclaimed, levering himself out of the seat. "Oh, oh yeah! Coming, coming...got yer Mallomars and Oreo brownies, Mallomars and...ooh, better save one a' those..." At the front door, he beamed at a crowd of cats, goblins, and a couple of young wizards who all looked troubled at the sight of a huge bear thrusting a big black basket of wrapped treats at them. "Here ya go! There's one for _you,_ and one for _you,_ and one for _me,_ and –hey, nice robe there, I'm more of a Hufflepuff guy myself – one for _you,_ and one for me! Okay! Buh-bye now! Happy Halloween!" Chuckling, he shut the door, lumbering back to the family room, but he'd only set the basket down and begun fumbling with the cellophane enclosing a brownie when the bell rang again. "Awww...okay..." He glanced at the TV, where the confused-looking sports reporter was ducking a canister of tear gas thrown by the cops into a shrieking mob of pajama-clothed people. "Man. Sure hope they replay this later...hey, I wonder if Kermit has one'a those DVL thingies? Maybe I can record it..." The bell rang insistently, and with a sigh, the bear shuffled toward the foyer. "Okay! Okay! Geez..."

Onscreen, Lewis Kazagger continued, "This is astounding! _Ordinary_ citizens are rioting in Queens, in Brooklyn, even in midtown Manhattan; reports are coming in from _all over_ that the police have called to duty _every_ officer on the rolls tonight to deal with this unprecedented _uprising_ of the masses!"

He shook his head, amazed, watching as the riot squad wrestled a three-hundred-pound walrus to the ground. The walrus, with her hair in curlers and an apron around her ample tummy, was moaning loudly, "They're coming! They ate my Offie and they're coming for _me!_ Run! _Ruuuuunnn!"_

Baffled, Kazagger turned back to the camera. "We will continue to follow this developing story through the evening, folks. Stay with us. For KRAK, this is Lewis Kazagger, filling in for...well...pretty much everyone."

As the channel brought up a commercial for Loopy Larry's Lemmingburgers, Bobo thumped back into the family room to grab the forgotten treat basket.


	56. Chapter 49

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE. _In which reality dawns on Gonzo; the Muppets enter the haunted hotel; and romance blooms just off set._

The brown-scaled Frackle plunked the takeout bag on the steamer trunk between Gonzo and Rosie. "There ya go. Eat up. And _you_ – pep rally in the auditorium in ten minutes," it growled, pointing a claw at Rosie before shuffling off. Gonzo opened the bag and sniffed deeply, not noticing the glum expression dulling all three eyes of his friend.

"Huh, well, I don't know this restaurant, but it smells pretty good," Gonzo remarked, pulling plain white cartons out and checking farther down inside the bag. "They sent both chopsticks and plastic forks; which one do you want?" Receiving no answer, Gonzo glanced up. "Earth to Rosie! Chopsticks?"

"Uh...nabba," McGurk mumbled, continuing to gaze at his furry feet. He lifted his head only when Gonzo shoved an open, fragrant carton before his wide nose.

"Come on, buddy! You're not still feeling sad about missing that Grouch party bus, are you?" Gonzo smiled. "Granted, with those guys, I doubt it'll be much of a party! And in just a few hours, we'll be the guests of honor at this big doorway-to-another-dimension-of-hideous-aspect celebration! I mean how _cool_ is that?" Rosie stared at him as Gonzo stuck his chopsticks into the carton. As he tried to withdraw a bite of sliced meat, veggies, and crunchy noodles, a noodly hand thrust up from the carton, grabbed the chopsticks, and whacked Gonzo's curly nose. "Ow! Hey!" Taken aback, Gonzo checked the side of the carton for any sort of notation. "What kinda food _is_ this anyway?"

"Chabba meeba."

"Oh. Chow _mean._ Uh...okay..." Unperturbed, Gonzo set the angrily flailing noodles aside and rummaged in the sack. "I think I saw some soup in here. Maybe that'll be more domesticated."

Silently, Rosie stuck a fork in the back of the viney claw of pea pods emerging from his own carton, and with a strangled, wet sort of sound, it subsided. He held up a forkful of wriggling veggies, and sighed. He just didn't have any appetite tonight.

Gonzo held up a paper cup, peeling back its lid cautiously. "This one seems safe. I see a won ton...hope that's not chicken broth, though..."

Rosie sighed again, listlessly looking around. The cell corridor was empty save for the two of them, the guards busy with escorting the other residents to the kitchen for tonight's...Rosie froze. His eyes widened, his horns perked, and a glob of excited drool plopped from his fat tongue to the dirt floor. _The corridor is EMPTY!_ With an anxious look in all directions to double-check, Rosie clasped a furry paw to Gonzo's sleeve. "Gazza! Gazza!"

"It _is_ chicken broth? Wow, thanks for warning me! That could've been really awkward," Gonzo said, hurriedly setting aside the soup, but Rosie was shaking his head, and beckoning him in close. "Uh...do I have a noodle stuck up my nose or something?" Gonzo wondered. He really wanted to look his best tonight; he'd worn his nattiest purple-and-orange plaid suit, and the stylish waistcoat printed all over with a pumpkin-and-candy-corn pattern, hoping he'd run into Camilla after the whole official ceremony thing was done.

"Gazza! Fah seggemony –"

"Right, it's tonight, I know! Hey, can I tag along to your pep rally? Are there gonna be cheerleaders?"

Impatiently, the pink-fuzzed monster shook his head. "Nagga! Gah seggemony wabba aleesha wah _helza um urffa!"_

Gonzo raised one eyelid, puzzled. "Well, yeah, I kinda figured that...I mean, what _else_ do you hold a Grand Ascension for, if not to open a black maw of horror and let loose the hounds of heck?" At Rosie's stunned gape, Gonzo grinned and patted his friend's shoulder. "So, tell me about the cheerleaders! Do they have pom-poms? Pom-poms are cool."

Trying again to get across the utter seriousness of the situation, Rosie picked up the carton of chow mean and a chopstick. He showed the thin bamboo stick to Gonzo. "Ezza _youga_ , ahkay?" He pointed at the carton, where the food was growling and quivering. "Ezza dah _heggate_ , ahkay?" He walked the chopstick blithely up to the carton and then plunged it in; the chow mean snarled and a froth of fried noodles crunched the stick to bits in seconds. Tossing aside the vicious entree, Rosie held up both hands placatingly. "Dunza _zee?"_

Gonzo frowned briefly. "You mean, when your boss opens this dark portal thingy, I'm going to be thrown into it?"

Rosie nodded so vigorously he spattered his own eyeballs with drool. Wiping them desperately, he expounded, "Gazza an Muppah ez _saggafizes!"_

"Oh, a _sacrifice!"_ Rosie nodded again. Relaxing, Gonzo beamed at him. "Oh...well, sure, that makes sense! If you're gonna open a dimension full of evil and terror, you really _should_ throw in a sacrifice, I hear. That seems to be the accepted thing. Hey, that's cool that your boss is old-school enough to remember that! I bet he never puts his elbows on the table or talks with his mouth full either, does he?"

Rosie's jaw hit the ground with an audible thump. Gonzo picked up the chow mean again, jabbing at it with the remaining chopstick. "This doesn't have tree fungus, does it? Aww...nuts...I _love_ that stuff..." Just as Rosie was about to explode, Gonzo stopped. His head jerked up, eyes wide. "Wait just a minute! They're gonna sacrifice _me?"_

"Yagga!" Rosie yelled, jumping up and waving his arms.

Gonzo's fur paled to turquoise. "Oh man. Well _that's_ not very considerate!" He threw aside the protesting noodles, standing up. "Rosie, we gotta get _out_ of here!"

"Yagga!" Rosie shouted agreement, inexpressibly relieved. The two of them immediately headed at a fast trot along the prison corridor. Rosie thought fast, trying to plot the safest route to the surface. He directed Gonzo in a right turn, then a left, and then as he grabbed Gonzo's shoulder to swing him through a tiny opening to a parallel tunnel, something wobbly and pink zoomed through from the other side. "Aggh!" Rosie quailed away from the wildly flopping, tentacled thing.

"Aww! Mon-ster! Yip! Yiiiiip yip yip yip yip!" the pink thing exclaimed in a monotone. A blue thing nearly identical to it swooped through the hole, also yipping and flailing its ropy appendages.

"What the hey?" Gonzo said, startled. A blue snout with whispery whiskers thrust through the opening, and suddenly a phantom in a moldy cloak stepped into the corridor, throwing both arms over his head.

"Ah _hah!"_ cried Uncle Deadly in his best baritone. "At last, we find _some_ semblance of—"

"Raggaaahhhh!" Rosie screamed, yanked Gonzo off his feet, and bolted, dragging a very surprised Whatever along with him in the strength of sheer terror.

"But wait! Rosie!" Gonzo choked, but the overwhelmed monster paid no heed, hauling fur as fast as his flat feet would carry them both.

In the suddenly quiet tunnel, Deadly stared at the raggy things. They'd darted behind him when the three-eyed monster roared, and now crept slowly out, bobbly eyes bouncing in every direction. "Mm. Awww. Mon-ster gone?"

Deadly's lip curled in contempt. With a huff, he swept his cloak around him and skulked after the vanished daredevil.

 _Where do the cables go? Is there some kind of master control booth back here?_ Newsie wondered, examining the tangle of thick black electrical and coaxial cables snaking from all points around the enormous cavern; they all seemed to join up at the bottom of the sloped room, and slipped under or behind a giant projection screen. He'd ducked in here after a long, tiring chase which seemed to go in circles through the tunnels. At least this room was quiet and unoccupied by roaring hordes of furry things... _Maybe this is where they screen the monster movie of the week,_ he thought. This didn't seem to get him any closer to Gina, but... _if there's a master control, maybe I can shut down their whole station!_ He immediately wished Rhonda were here; as a reporter, his knowledge of the tech side of broadcasting was limited to making sure his mic was switched on, and sometimes he did that wrong, too. With a frown, Newsie approached the giant screen, when suddenly noise and movement came from behind him. Newsie ducked behind the screen, holding his breath in the tight space between the suspended high-tech sheet and the rough cavern wall.

"... _All_ of 'em to the ballroom? That's gonna get crowded," a heavy, slow voice complained.

A hissing, slithery sort of voice replied, irritated: "Of courssse not all of them! Jussst the Muppet onesss on the lissst! The resssst can wait in the kitchensss; I am sssure when hisss ineffable disssgussstingnesss assssends, he will be very... _hungry."_ Things chuckled; Newsie held absolutely still. "Sssee to it that the weirdo isss brought to the ballroom at the proper time, along with Van Neuter. And make sssure that reporter Muppet isss found quickly! His hideoussssness is much pleassed to hear he hasss been sssighted in the ssstudiosss, but he mussst be found before the ceremony; our underlord very much wissshesss him to ssserve asss the thirty-firsst ssacrifisse! I musst go sssspeak with Carl; our massster wissshesss him to remain on the air in between the haunted houssse coverage to provide sssome sssort of humor. Although persssonally I find the idea of the nasssty little felt-thingsss being taken into the darknessss one...by...one... _terribly_ funny!" That hissing laugh sounded again, along with a dutiful chortle by the deeper voice. The Newsman continued to hold his breath, starting to feel faint; when he heard footsteps fade away and all was silent again, he gasped, slumping against the wall.

 _Oh frog. Oh frog no. This is horrible!_ His knees weak, his whole body trembling, the Newsman pressed his back to the wall just to keep from sinking. _What do I do? How do I stop them? What if I can't?_ He gulped, fighting a surge of panic. _Where's Gina? What have they done with her? I can't find her...what if she's...I'm just a Muppet! What do I do? What CAN I do?_

Desperate, he clung to the wall. His fingers found a junction box. _Shut down the signal. Nobody's said anything about it being knocked out so it must still be operating...which means Rhonda..._ He swallowed a lump of emotion threatening to choke him. _Oh, Rhonda, no..._

Trying to focus on what he might be able to do here, doing his best not to give in to the certain grief trying to well up in his chest, Newsie turned and eased his flashlight from his knapsack. He'd lost his mask in the dash from the game-show studio, but at least he still had this. _Some good that does! Gina's lost in here somewhere, Rhonda's...not here, and those hideous things are going to do something awful to any Muppet they get their claws on! Have to stop them...have to find Gina and get out before..._ Shivering, he cut off all such thoughts, determined to do _something_ to block the nefarious plans. He squinted at the junction box. It was solidly screwed to the wall, and he didn't have anything which might serve to open it. The cables, however, didn't end there, but continued on; sliding himself awkwardly sideways, Newsie traced the connections to the far edge of the huge screen, where the cables wrapped around a corner of jagged rocks. Cold air radiated out from the opening to another, narrower tunnel. Newsie paused, feeling suddenly hesitant to shine his light down this new path. _It's almost hidden behind the screen,_ he realized. _If you didn't know this was there... Could this be where they're keeping Gina?_ He did his best to steel his foam, and took a step closer to the secret tunnel. A low, distant whistle sounded from within. Newsie jerked back, flattening himself against the cavern wall. Two seconds later, a large white caterpillar the height of a Doberman barreled past, undulating wildly as it ran into the tunnel like a dog called to dinnertime.

Newsie held his breath, eyes wide, feeling an actual air current blowing back his hair as the thing freight-trained its way down the tunnel; it took what seemed like a full minute to pass him completely. _What the **** was THAT?_ More sounds from the cavern room disturbed him. Peeking very cautiously around the bottom edge of the screen, he saw something which made him jerk back, and his breath caught in his throat. _Monsters! Oh frog I'm caught! I'm dead! They're all...coming..._ He heard a voice very near the front of the room, close by the screen, mutter, "Man, ya'd think we could at least bring popworms..."

"Dude, come on! Where's your holiday spirit?" another growling voice exclaimed. "Wave your pom-poms a lot and maybe the Underlord'll notice ya! Then you can have all the popworms ya want!"

As a low argument about allowing snacks into pep rallies continued, and more and more growls, chirrups, and strange sounds began to fill the echoing auditorium. Newsie realized no one had spotted him. _Yet. They're here for a...a pep rally? What the hey?_ He slowly eased away from the edge of the screen, concealing himself fully behind it. His trembling fingers found some of the cables bolted to the wall, and he hung on, terrified of the slightest movement giving him away. Nowhere to run now. He'd have to stay there, motionless, while these things enjoyed their entertainment, whatever horrid thing _that_ turned out to be...

He didn't have to wait long. A crackle and hiss from the speakers mounted around the screen made him jump, but luckily the screen itself was securely fastened and didn't wobble to give him away. The rumble of monsters seemed to fill the space, a mass of voices and a morass of smells informing the Newsman that hundreds of nasty beasts now crowded between him and the way out. The same slithery voice he'd heard earlier called out, "Isss everyone here?"

A roared chorus served as reply. "Exssssellent!" the voice crooned, moving closer to the screen. "All of you, on thisss mossst magnifissent, malefissent of all nights, lissten to your lord and massster! O our wondroussssly horrible lord, we sssserve you!"

A deep, chilling voice boomed from the speakers. "Welcome, my children! Welcome, all those who have chosen to turn their backs on the light and the sappy sweetness of their night of treats in favor of _this –_ _our_ night of endless screams, limitless horror, and unbounded _power!_ Welcome!" The monsters roared, cheered, pounded the floor. Newsie shuddered. "Tonight is our night, the time when at last I shall arise reborn even _more_ terrible and wondrous, and lead you all up into _their_ world...where we shall tear, and claw, and eat our fill!" Someone in the front row swooned, moaning. "But my beastly brethren, you must remember, there is no great victory without sacrifice! I am aware that some among you have nurtured a... _fondness_ for those hideously cute creatures who call themselves Muppets." A frightened hush swept the crowd. "You must set aside _any_ pity for them, any sympathy, any thought at all which does not lead to the inevitable _execution_ of each and every one of them! For it is _they,_ my foul friends, who are responsible for all the abuse you have ever encountered... _they_ are the ones who relegated you to comic roles when you should have been eating them at every meal! _They_ are the ones who hold the simpering public above in their nasty little felted hands! _They_ are the ones who take our jobs, _our_ rightful place as the ones the surface-dwellers worship with their paparazzi and their fan clubs and their websites!" Listening, Newsie wondered how the heck _anyone_ could believe this irrational nonsense – but the monsters cheered.

"So as you go forth to your assigned tasks this evening, keep in mind who the _real_ enemy is – the Muppets!" The crowd growled and snarled agreement loudly. "They are all that stands in the way of us assuming ultimate power in this city! And once we have the city, the whole _world_ shall bow to us in cowardly fear, in quivering respect, and in abject _surrender!_ At the unholy hour of ten-thirty-one _tonight,_ we shall as one act, and rend, and destroy – and offer up this sacrifice to the darkest powers – and _then,_ my hideous children, ahhh, _then!"_ The voice sounded almost delirious with pleasure. Newsie felt ill, and clung to the wall desperately. "Then I, your lord and bounteous master, shall give myself over to that power completely, and arise again as the most monstrous monster _ever_ to crawl the blighted face of this sorrowful earth! And you, all of you, shall join me as we surge up through the gutters and the sewers and the subways like an unstoppable tide – a red tide of blood and fury and _glory!"_

The crowd roared so loudly the whole cavern shook. Frightened, Newsie looked at the rough rock ceiling, wondering what lay above it: more rock? A subway tunnel? Was a chunk of Chinatown about to collapse in on this horrible cavalcade? The underlord, quieting slightly, continued: "So go forth, my wonderful worgs, my gibbering goblins, my fractured Frackles, and be about your duties with a cheerful heart and a determined mind! Think with _my_ thoughts, act as _my_ hands, and when the time comes at last, hesitate not to rip every bleating little Muppet heart from their squishy ribcages and let the darkness consume them _all!"_

Shutting his eyes, the Newsman flattened his own resilient ribs against the back wall, gasping, hearing an entire cave full of monsters howling their approval. The thought that he'd been absolutely right about them all still didn't increase his chances at getting out of here alive.

Beaker meeped, giving Bunsen a thumbs-up from across the hotel lobby. The crowd of milling Muppets quieted somewhat as Kermit looked around, making eye contact to get everyone's attention. Honeydew beamed. "Well! Everything seems to be working properly, so it's time to get this party started! You are transmitting live..." He checked his watch, counting down the seconds, then pointed at Beaker in the old office. "Now!" Beaker pushed a big lever down, and checked the transmitter strength. He nodded at Bunsen again.

"Ahem...okay, listen up, everyone!" Kermit called out. The last murmurs died down, save for Janice, standing at the foot of the decrepit-seeming grand staircase.

"...but, like, I would _never_ leave a friend alone with Pe..." Suddenly noticing the silence, she blushed and shut up, deliberately looking away from the king prawn nearby.

Kermit nodded. "Okay. I just want to say, welcome, everybody! I'm really glad so many of you were able to participate tonight for this important event, which will benefit so many Muppets who...ah...who..."

"Who otherwise would not have the benefit of legal counsel in a world which so often discriminates against us!" Everyone looked at the one person in the room not wearing a _'Ham in a Cabin'_ tee-shirt, the young olive-felted rep from the law firm.

"Right," Kermit said. "Everyone have their headlamp turned on and their sensor attached?"

Mumbles of agreement and assent filled the room. Pepe grumbled, "Like they could have provided headbands that actually _fit_ all of us, okay!" While most of the Muppets had no trouble with the miner-style headlamps on their foreheads, shooting tiny rays of reddish light around as people nodded and looked at one another, the prawn and Rizzo the Rat had been forced to improvise, belting the headbands around their waists. Even then Pepe's kept sliding down, although Rizzo's rested just above his belly; he'd tagged along with some kid relations just before arriving here to snag some of their trick-or-treat haul. Camilla clucked softly around the band held in her beak, aiming it up at Beauregard.

He blinked at her. "Hey, you got yours to work! How come mine's not on?" The janitor's lamp was on, but shining from the back of his head since he'd put it on backwards. He frowned, then brightened abruptly. "Will you be my walking buddy?"

"Remember, your sponsors will pay more toward the charity fund if you complete the entire circuit of the hotel, so pay a visit to every room!" Bunsen informed them. He rubbed his hands excitedly. "Oh, this is going to be _so_ much fun! Ready, Beaker?" Beaker meeped and nodded, and Bunsen waved once at everyone before trotting to the office to ensconce himself at the FX board for the night. "Let's get it started, hah! Let's get it started in here!" he sang, and slammed shut the hidden panel.

Rizzo looked up and around glumly. "Does dat mean we hafta go upstairs?"

Pepe sniffed, drawing himself up with a disdainful toss of his antennae. "Jou are such a rice cake, okay! It's like a fun house! Are jou scared to go in those at the carnivals already?"

Rizzo snapped at him, "Naw, the carny stands are more my style...and the food! Oooh, elephant ears and cotton candy..." His stomach rumbled. Remembering he'd just been insulted, he retorted, "I bet _you_ don't even go on da merry-go-round!"

"Ahh, the Tunnel of _Loooove_ is the best ride, _amigo."_

"Where should we start first, Uncle Kermit?" Robin asked, still bouncing up and down on tiptoe as he'd done for the past hour and a half.

"Well, why don't we start on the top floor, and work our way down?" Kermit suggested.

"Why not start _here,_ and work our way _up?"_ Scooter countered. Sara, the tallest member of the group present, giggled and locked her elbow in his.

"Bet we hit all the rooms before you guys do!" she teased the frog and entourage.

"You're on!" Robin chirped. Piggy smiled, batting her lashes.

"As long as we're done _soon,_ what difference does the approach make?"

Fozzie Bear tapped Rowlf's arm nervously. "Hey, Rowlf? You don't think this is a...a _real_ haunted hotel, is it?"

A low, spooky moan filtered through the room just then, directionless, fading before anyone could orient on it. Rowlf blinked at the ceiling. "I don't see any speakers..."

"Oh noooo," Fozzie groaned. When Rowlf shrugged and headed for the archway to the formal dining hall, Fozzie ran to catch up with him. "Wait! Why are you going that way first? Is it safer?"

The dog scratched an ear. "Well, I figure if there _are_ any spooks, best place to sniff 'em out first is the bar!"

Dumbfounded, Fozzie asked, "Why's that?"

"'Cause then I'll be able to smell the boos!"

Fozzie halted, startled, then ran after the dog again. "Aaahhh! Fun-neee!"

"Sheggen der cooken-platzen too," the Swedish Chef agreed, heading after Rowlf.

Sam the Eagle reluctantly joined him. "I suppose looking around on this level first is sensible, since we're already here...though I still fail to see the point of all this...set dressing," he scoffed, avoiding the cobwebs with distaste. "Really, don't they ever _clean_ in here? There's no way Fodor's would ever give this establishment more than _one_ star!"

"Man, this place gives new meaning to the phrase _check-out time!"_ Floyd Pepper commented, tailing after Dr Teeth as the bandleader headed slowly up the staircase.

"Come on, maybe they left some of those fluffy robes!" Teeth joked, cautiously holding the wobbly railing as he ascended.

"Oh, wow, like I wonder if this place has a spa?" Janice asked, following them.

"Spa! Spa!" Animal barked, pausing to gnaw the balustrade before Floyd jerked his chain upward. He bounded up the stairs. "Man-i-cure! Man-i-cure! Hah ha ha ha ha!"

"I wonder if this place has an _exit?"_ Floyd returned.

Zoot just shook his head, staring down at his tee-shirt as he climbed the stairs. Somehow he'd managed to put it on back-to-front, and he was trying to figure out why the cartoon sketch of Piggy made her look _nicer_ than usual.

"Glad you could all chip in," said Miles Blandish, looking bored, but the boar he spoke to perked up.

"Oh, it's always nice to give back something to my adoring fans," Link Hogthrob told him earnestly. "You...you _did_ say all the money was going to the Hogthrob Adoration Club, right?"

"Only if it's for a lobotomy for the one fan in it," Dr Julius Strangepork grumbled. He sighed, trotting toward the dining room, where shrieks and moans and eerie laughter sounded. "Come on, let's do this. Who knows? It might prove to be fun!"

Link trembled. "But...but...it sounds kind of...scary in there..."

"Oh, come on, Link, it's chust a fun house! Nutting _really_ spooky!"

"Yes, yes, of course," Link agreed, nodding rapidly. He pushed Miss Piggy ahead of him. "Better go check it out, First Mate Piggy. It sounds a little too, uh, _immature_ for a manly hog like me!"

"Oh, brother," Piggy growled. "Listen, you foamheaded chicken –" At a protest from across the room, she amended, "Sorry, Camilla! Listen, you lily-livered yellow suckling, _I'm_ doing this gig with _my_ frog, so get lost! Go check it out yourself!" She shoved Link through the dining room doorway, and immediately a recorded howl was followed by a girlish shriek and the crash of wooden chairs.

"Upstairs or down?" Walter asked, bouncing on his toes in his saddle shoes, pleased as punch to be included in a charity event benefiting Muppets.

"Down!" Lew Zealand exclaimed, pointing his fish up. "What's that, Beatrice?" He put the fish to his ear. "Beatrice says, let's start in the middle and then we'll be able to go both ways at once!"

"I don't think it works like that," Walter murmured, confused.

Wanda shrugged, brushing back her wavy hair. "Any way we do it, look on the bright side: the scariest possible thing has already been crossed off the list and we don't have to worry about running into it!"

Walter quirked an eyebrow at her. "How's that?"

She smiled sweetly. "Wayne couldn't attend...too busy throwing his twenty-third comeback CD release party."

Lew chortled. "Now that _is_ scary! Whuh-huh-huh!"

Kermit took his wife's hand on one side and his nephew's on the other. "Come on, guys! Let's show the world Muppets aren't scared of anything!" Leaning closer to Piggy, he murmured, "Especially not fake ghosts!"

She snorted, delicately starting up the stairs alongside him. "Wish the _dirt_ was fake..."

In the command center, Bunsen giggled at the group experiencing the talking skull centerpieces in the dining room, and Fozzie and Rowlf jumping, startled, when the phantom pork roast glowered at them in the kitchen. "Oh, isn't this fun, Beakie? Make sure you switch the feed constantly so the television and web-TV audiences both get a good look at each and every scare!"

"Mee mee," Beaker mumbled, eyes flicking from one small split-screen to another, trying to keep up with the various views as the Muppets began to split up and explore. Once people spread out in the upper floors, this job would get _really_ hairy. Nagged by worries about the scares he still believed the two of them _hadn't_ set up, he checked the PKE meter again. The reading was slightly higher than it had been this afternoon. "Me mee mee!" he said, poking Bunsen's arm repeatedly.

Bunsen glanced over, mildly annoyed. "Beaker, I _told_ you, there's no cause for alarm unless the reading climbs significantly higher! What you're seeing is no doubt the fear vibe factor caused by all our colleagues moving about and experiencing elevated heart-rates as our little surprises put them all on edge!" He leaned over, tapping one of the instrument panels. "Look here: _everyone's_ sensor reading is spiking at least a little! Why, that one there..."

Beaker's head shot back to the monitor at a loud wail of terror; Link was fleeing the dining room, having never made it as far as the kitchen, chased by a levitating skull. "My, that's a remarkable spike," Bunsen continued, not looking up. "You see? Nothing to worry about! You just make sure the live feed of all the cameras and all the participants' body sensors goes out so everyone watching will want to get involved and pledge more money! All for a good cause, you know." A wide smile on his round face, the good doctor cracked his knuckles, and then his nimble fingers twiddled over the racks of switches at his command. "Now...time to start pumping up the volume, so to speak...or should I say _pumpkin_ up? Ho, ho, ho!" He pushed the button to operate the dropping, animated jack-o'lantern atop the second landing, making even the stoic Dr Teeth jump in surprise.

Sighing, Beaker turned back to the monitors. So far, nothing _bad_ had happened; at least all the motion sensors seemed to be working, cameras clicking on live as Muppets cautiously approached their ranges. He cut from the Mayhem, now past the silly scare, to the Chef trying to poke the illusory roast pig on the vast grill of the kitchen. The reading on the psychokinetic energy sensor climbed fractionally. Beaker bit his lip glumly. It was going to be a long night, and he already felt primed to run screaming from primetime...

The audience screamed, whooped, and threw things on cue as Carl strode out on the set from behind a scrim painted with a cityscape in orange flames. "And now here's the monster you've all waited for, and some of you are even waiting because you _like_ him – Carl, the Big Mean Host!" Snookie announced. Carl grinned, his green lips stretched from one yellow horn to the other. Snookie sighed, sitting still on his tall stool by the band, while Big Mama and the Mutations wound down a rocking, off-key version of "Tonight, Tonight" from _'West Side Story.'_

"Hi!" Carl said, and the audience whooped again as the "woop it up" sign flashed over the set. "So hey, what an amazing night, huh? Let's hear it for the Underlord!" The crowd cheered and smacked one another, each monster striving to outdo his fellows in a display of violent loyalty, aware that the camera was on them. Carl also clapped dutifully before going on. "In honor of the big night, we'll be live all evening, interrupting the Muppet-napping going on upsta—oops, I mean, the _charity walk,"_ he sneered, to much laughter. "We'll be interrupting them throughout the broadcast, to remind the surface-dweebs who's _really_ running this holiday – the monsters!" More roars of approval.

Snookie slumped, disheartened. _All night? Great. That's just great._ He still didn't know what "wonderful surprise" Carl had planned for him tonight, but he'd seen the pretty blue-and-pink-felted girl backstage briefly as they dragged him out and chained him to the stool, and she'd been wearing an apron and poufy white hat, so he had a fairly good idea he wasn't going to like his role. Carl gestured at a large screen being lowered behind the set. "We'll be able to keep an eye on the tasty little critters with this, and boy, I promise you, it's gonna be the food documentary to end all food documentaries!" He grinned wider, lifting his horns at an angle towards one another. "But before we get to that, let's take a look at our Monster Kitchen! Stinky?"

The camera cut backstage, where Constanza sullenly looked up from a huge mound of dough. "My flunky Stinky here's putting together a wonderful piecrust dough! Tell us about the spices, Stinky!" Carl said.

The felted girl just glared at the camera a moment, then went back to kneading a pile of gooey dough almost as big as herself on a marble board on the floor. In the background, a huge pie tin was visible. The audience laughed. Carl shook his head. "Talkative little thing, ain't she? We'll keep checking in as she makes us all a Halloween treat – and a trick for my able-felted sidekick, the eminently lip-smacking Snookums!" The audience cheered. Carl beamed, displaying his one good tooth, slowly rocking back and forth on his huge hindpaws, hands jammed into his furry pockets. "Right now, let's check in with the haunted house spookfest. Coming up on this very special edition of _Monsters Tonight:_ our very distinguished, and _extinguished_ guest, the legendary Spawn Chaney Junior!"

The crowd whooped. Carl retreated to his desk as the station feed went back to the charity walk going on upstairs. He sipped from a mug shaped like a Frackle skull, then walked over to Snookie. "Okay, buddy, time for your costume fitting, heh heh heh..."

"What costume?" Snookie demanded. "You're not really going through with that pumpkin-pie shtick, are you?"

"You bet your sweet nummy _tuchis_ I am! Get back there!" Carl followed the stagefrackles as they dragged an unwilling yellow Muppet offstage, and began pulling a fat orange bodysuit onto him.

"You gotta be kidding!" Snookie argued. He looked behind him; Constanza gave him a worried look, but said nothing, beginning to roll out the dough. Desperately Snookie smacked the padded glob of a pumpkin costume threatening to smother him. "Come on! You can't bake me in _that_ wearing _this!_ It's not even real pumpkin!"

Carl grimaced. "Ahhh, Muppet foam, polystyrene, who cares? It's not like those schlubs have any concept of gourmet cooking anyway! This is just pop-culture food, Snookums!" He pointed at the pie tin. "Be ready to make like a pumpkin and get all mushy for the camera! I gotta intro the guest." He hurried out to the front of the sophisticated talk-show set.

The wardrobe freaks finally tugged the last stifling chunk of orange foam into place, nearly covering Snookie entirely. He stood there in dismay, trying an experimental step, and nearly toppled over; the outfit covered him stuffily from his chin to his toes and fingertips, and they'd strapped a fake pumpkin lid with a curly stem atop his head, just adding insult to the whole gig. He turned his head as much as he was able to just barely see Constanza; she was unfolding the gushy crust into the giant tin. "Please tell me you're not going along with this," he muttered at her.

She stopped, giving him an exasperated head-shake. "What am I _supposed_ to do? He threatened to make me have a bite too if I didn't prep the pie for him!"

"Well, hey, thanks for not wanting to bite into me," Snookie snapped, vainly trying to wriggle at least one arm free of the ridiculous costume.

"Not like that," she muttered. Surprised, Snookie looked at her again.

"What?"

She glanced at the stagefrackles, but they all seemed intent on the monitors which would cue them for the next shift of camera feeds. Quickly she darted over to him, and whispered, "They can't bake you and serve you up to the whole audience – you'll be killed!"

"Not like he hasn't baked me bef—wait, _what?"_ Snookie stared at her in horror. "Serve me up? As in _cutting?_ As in _knives?"_

She held up an enormous cake server with a festively pumpkin-themed handle. "More like a pie spatula."

"Erg!" Snookie choked. Constanza tossed another frightened glance at the crew, then grabbed the front of Snookie's foam pumpkin-body.

"I won't let him," she hissed. "We'll get you out of here!"

And then she kissed him.

Snookie's normally sleepy-lidded eyes flew wide open. When Constanza pulled back, her own eyes fierce, he gaped at her. "Wha...? You..."

"I," she restated, bringing her lips closer to his with every word, "won't. Let. Them. Hurt you." And she pressed her soft felt to his again.

Snookie's eyes shut, and he kissed her back, hesitantly at first, then with all the passion that certain death tended to engender. She tasted of cloves. He pulled back uncertainly. "You don't smoke those funny cigarettes, do you?" he asked.

She glared at him. "Come on, Mr Charming. Get out of that stupid vegetable."

Together, stealing fearful looks at the stage crew intent on the laughter from the audience as Spawn Chaney performed a scene from his most famous film, _'Peoria After Midnight,'_ the two Muppets struggled to pull Snookie's foam from the stiffer plumpness of a fake pumpkin destined for the stomachs of a rowdy crowd.  
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	57. Chapter 50-1

CHAPTER FIFTY (part one). _In which we find bats vs frogs; spiders vs rat and prawn; and hearing aids vs Kazagger._

Things shifted in the shadows of the attic. Robin hung back, clinging to his uncle's hand, aware that none of the spooky stuff was real but feeling a little jangled after an entire bag of candy corn weevils and what seemed like a dozen things jumping out to scare him already. Kermit tried putting up a brave front, but in truth, the attic was the darkest, creepiest, cobwebbiest part of the whole hotel. "Hey, ah...good thing we came here first!" he said, sounding a lot more cheerful than he felt. "The rest of the place won't seem so bad after this, huh?"

"One side, green stuff," Piggy muttered, stalking past her hubby to glare into the dark corners. She took off her headlamp, glaring at it as well. "Is this thing even _on?_ Sheesh...some help."

"Uh, I think the red light is so everything looks scarier, Aunt Piggy," Robin suggested.

"It probably has something to do with how Bunsen and Beaker are filming this, too," Kermit said. It felt more reassuring to think about special effects film techniques when all he could see was a few inches of grimy, dusty floorboard ahead.

"Well, I stepped on something that _moved_ back on that second stairway! I'm done with groping around in the dark!" Piggy growled, digging through her chic little red purse for something.

"Hey Uncle Kermit, does it feel like the...the air is moving more up here?"

Kermit agreed. "Must be a hole in the insulation. Well, we _are_ right under the roof, and this place _is_ pretty old..." A gust rippled the front of his tee-shirt, making him shiver. "And full of holes."

Cautiously, Robin stepped closer to one pitch-black corner. Something rustled. He paused, and exchanged a look with Kermit. Stiffening his spine and nodding firmly at his nephew, Kermit advanced with him, and they both slowly leaned forward, shining their headlamps into the corner where...a small roach stopped to look up at them. Kermit blinked. Robin started to giggle. Then the roach held up a paper sign on a stick: _BOO!_

The frogs broke into relieved laughter. Annoyed, the roach skittered off into the shadows. Piggy finally located the mini LED flashlight she _knew_ she'd kept in this purse. "Oh, gosh, that was bad!" Robin laughed. "Here we were expecting something to jump out at us, and it was just a bug!"

"Hmm. I wouldn't mind a snack," Kermit mused, looking around to see if he could find the roach again.

"There!" Piggy switched the flashlight on triumphantly. "Hah! I bet this'll give us an advantage over..." More rustling and now small squeaking noises sounded. As one, the Frogs looked at one another, then craned their heads back and up. "Everyone...else..." Piggy finished.

The entirety of the attic rafters were covered in hundreds of bats.

Very _large_ bats.

One of them looked hungrily at little Robin, who cringed closer to Kermit. "U-uncle Kermit?"

"Maybe we should just..." Kermit began, taking a hesitant step toward the stairs.

With a whoosh of wings, every bat took off, swooping crazily, and in seconds the attic was a tornado of bats. Two of them dive-bombed Robin, who yelped and leapt for the stairs. "Aaaaagh!" Piggy cried, swatting at the ones zooming too close to her sensitive ears. Kermit ducked her head, trying to protect her, but more bats crazily dove at him. Just as Robin reached the opening to the stairs, a dozen bats lifted the open trapdoor and slammed it shut. Irritated, Piggy shook off her husband and tried to swat at any flying mammal which came close. "Dang it! A little help here?"

"B-but Aunt Piggy, they're bats!" Robin cried, darting all around the attic, frantically trying to keep away from the swarm.

"Yeah, yeah, I shouldn't have shined the light up, I get it, okay? They're just bats!" She smacked one out of the air; it crashed into a rafter and lay on the floor, stunned. "Just...ungh!...stupid...pesky...smelly...bats...arrrrgh!"

"Honey!" Kermit yelped, panic rising as he tried to smack away the two or three dozen bats all swooping at him continually. "Bats eat frogs!"

Piggy stared at him, absently thwacking another flying threat into a third. "Oh...crap."

The amphibious members of the team bounced all over the attic, yelping every time a bat managed to land a claw on them. Piggy's eyes narrowed. She shoved up the sleeves of the cute little jacket she'd put on over the ugly orange tee. "Oh I don't _think_ so," she muttered, and waded into the screeching, flapping morass. "Hiiiiii- _yaaaahh!"_

Camilla fluttered along the second-floor south corridor. So far the silly scares had annoyed her more than startled her, and she was wondering where her Whatever could be. Even though the daredevil reality show was now over (for once, she appreciated the ridiculously abbreviated "seasons" new television shows seemed to favor), Gonzo still hadn't come home. _Where could he be? He sang those songs for me, just me...but his eye has wandered before..._ Although she hadn't noticed any particularly leggy poultry on that MMN channel, that didn't quite rule out some fancy little Guinea hen throwing herself at Gonzo's bandy feet. _Why isn't he home yet? He didn't show up here either, even though that same station is presenting this silly haunted house. Could something else have happened?_ Uneasily, she thought about all the monsters she'd seen during the live shows of _'Break a Leg.'_ Monsters, she well knew, tended to be a little too casual about their dinner preferences. _Could one of them have...No. Surely not! My weirdo's not at all tasty-looking to them...is he?_ Not even the notoriously hungry Gorgon Heap had ever tried to gulp Gonzo, though he'd taste-tested most of the other members of the Muppet Show cast, including – almost – Camilla herself. _If he hadn't sprayed that expanding insulation foam down Gorgon's gullet, that brute would have really mussed my feathers!_

Beauregard paused at the next door along this side of the creaky hallway. So far, they'd opened and at least looked into three different rooms. The last one had been especially annoying to Camilla, as a soundtrack of screeches and yowls accompanied the stuffed black cats which pounced at them from atop the moldy bed. She sighed, holding her light up for Beau to see as he turned the knob. He stopped, looking down at the chicken. "Hey, maybe you'd better stand back a little, just to be safe," he cautioned her. With a roll of her pretty blue eyes and a shrug, she stepped aside. Beau opened the door slowly. "Oh...oh...oh!" he gulped, trembling. "Oh no! That's _awful!"_

Curious, Camilla peered around his stocky legs, but saw only a broom closet. Dirty shelves and random bottles of gunk long caked-onto their final resting ledges seemed frightening only for the spiderwebs draped from them. Allergic to spider bites, Camilla leaned away from them, shining her lamp at the other wall of the closet. Beau, one hand to his mouth as though he was nervous enough to bite his nails, slowly reached in with the other mitt and withdrew a tattered dustmop. He stared at it in horror, then let it drop to the floor. Camilla peered at it, wondering if perhaps there was fake blood on it, or if it would animate like that water pitcher had a couple rooms back.

"That's a Jonny-Kleen 1922 Floor Polisher!" Beau gasped. "And...and...they just left it here to _rot!"_

"Bawk _bawk,_ bawk," Camilla clucked at him irritably.

Beau turned wide eyes to her. "I can _see_ that – of _course_ it's dead!" With a half-choked sob, he raised the stick with a bit of gray, mummified fluff on one end reverently to his shoulder. "We...we should give it a proper burial. Otherwise..." His voice dropped to a thick whisper. "Otherwise, it might _haunt_ us!"

Camilla stared at him a minute, then began flapping her wings and squawking at him, all her pent-up worry blasting out. Before she'd thwapped his head more than once, a cold wind swept along the hallway, accompanied by a low, growling, terrible roar. "Aaah! You see? You see? Ohhhhh forgive me Jonny-Kleen!" Beau cried, dropping the wretched stick and pounding heavy feet toward the turn of the hallway. Alarmed, Camilla hurried after him, her squawks turning from anger to fear.

At the north end of the second floor, Floyd shook his head as Animal finally completed his massive belch, eyes drooping, content. "Dang, man! I _told_ you not to eat so much trick-or-treat stuff before we left!" Floyd scolded the drummer.

"Sahhh-reee," Animal muttered.

Dr Teeth chuckled. "At least he was butterin' his dental implementations with the _candy_ instead of the trick-or-treaters!"

Janice nodded. "Like, that one kid totally looked like a sno-cone. I thought fer sure he was a goner..."

Animal perked. "Sno-cone! Sno-cone!" He turned to the nearest door and charged through it, taking down the door and the confetti-dumping trap wired over it as well. Dr Teeth shook his head as the drummer hopped around in the center of the decrepit hotel room, frantically trying to catch and eat the floating bits of bright orange sparkly foil. "Aaaaaahhh ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

In the hallway, Zoot paused, ears cocked toward the ceiling. "Hey, uh...anyone else hear a lotta squeaking, man?"

The others stopped to listen for a moment. "Like, no, dude, sorry," Janice murmured.

Floyd shook his head. "Must be your shoes on this fine parquet, man!" With a raspy laugh, he tugged on Animal's chain. "Animal! Come on, man! It's only gonna give you gas!"

Puzzled, Zoot shrugged, and trailed after the others as they went on to the next abandoned room. He clutched his sax, wondering when the gig was going to start. Somehow this whole wandering-around-corridors thing was starting to remind him of a movie...something about tapping spines... With a weary step, he plodded along, somehow managing not to bump into the walls with his shades on.

A shaking, nervous rat peered slowly around the bottom of the first landing balustrade. Suddenly a brash shrimp in a pirate's hat with an orange tee-shirt shoved him aside to jump in a manly fashion into the center of the landing. "Hah _hahh!"_ he exclaimed, wielding his tiny sword aloft to challenge the darkness.

Rizzo blew out a breath and collapsed against the thick wooden post marking the turn of the stairs. "Sheesh! Do ya _hafta_ keep doing dat?"

Pepe shrugged. "Hey, _one_ of us has to be the brave one, _amigo."_

"Brave my butt," Rizzo muttered, cautiously advancing and looking up and around, but nothing else jumped out. "You just wanna rush through this so you can get to your fancy parties."

Pepe tossed his antennae cavalierly. "Jou are just jealous because the Olsen twins did not ask _jou_ to come shake your bon-bons at their party, okay."

Rizzo scoffed, checking out the stairs going up. "As what? Da appetizer?" He put a paw out to stop Pepe from starting up the next flight. "Waitaminute, Prawn Cracker. Ya might trigger anuddah scary gag." As the last ones to go up the stairs except for a still-sniveling Link Hogthrob, they'd seen every other group set off things that dropped, screamed, blew air cannons at them, or sprang up from holes in the crumbling staircase.

Pepe laughed. "Jou are a chicken, okay? This is all just silly tricks! There is no such thing as a haunted hotel already!"

"Dat ain't what Rick Steves says!" Rizzo argued. "Tell ya what; you're so big and fierce, _you_ go foist from here on up!"

The prawn paused, glancing nervously up into the darkness; the screams and yells of their comrades carried down faintly on a chill breeze. He shivered, swallowed, and thrust out his prawnly chest. "Fine! I will prove to jou that jou are being a big _wussy!_ Hmf!" So stating, he grabbed the first stair of the next run and hauled himself up.

"WoooooOOOOOOoooo!" wailed a giant orange spider, dropping suddenly from a hidden web above. Rat and prawn both shrieked like little girls, clutching at one another. The spider swayed slowly, chuckling at them.

Rizzo smacked Pepe. "Will you get off me, you lousy coward? Who's da wussy chicken _now,_ huh?"

Disgruntled, Pepe shoved Rizzo away. "What are jou talking about? _Jou_ grabbed _me!_ Quit being such a bambino!"

 _"Who's_ a bambino?" Rizzo exclaimed, thrusting his nose into the shrimp's flat face.

They continued to posture and argue a few minutes. The spider slowly came to a dead halt, hanging upside-down, watching them with eight blinking eyes. When a glob of drool hit Rizzo's whiskers, he sputtered and wiped angrily. _"Hey!_ Say it, don't spray it, you uncivilized heat'n!"

"Who are jou calling a heater?" Pepe snapped. Another drop of sticky drool splatted over his sword, oozing down the handle. Disgusted, he dropped the weapon. "Eeeuugh! Where does jou come off, accusing _me_ of spitting, when jou..." Realizing he'd been looking right at Rizzo, and the rat hadn't spat, he slowly trailed off, turning his gaze upward. Rizzo did the same.

The spider slowly grinned at them. "Duhh, huh, huh," it chuckled. "Is you guys crunchy or squishy?"

Rat and shrimp stared up in horror a moment, then as one screamed and ran back the way they'd come. A sticky web shot out, tripping them both, and suddenly Rizzo and Pepe were yanked off their feet and into the spider's grasp. He held them by their ankles in two sharp-toed feet, looked from one to the other hungrily, and muttered, "Maybe two in one bite? Crunchy _and_ squishy good!" A river of drool ran from his enormous multiple jaws.

Pepe and Rizzo shrieked only a split second before the spider shot up along his line of silk, carrying them with him into the black recesses of the upper floors.

Lewis Kazagger hadn't been this grumpy since the Beijing Olympics Committee refused to allow Muppets a travel visa for the games. He tried to straighten his toupee and craned his neck to peer around the crowd rubbernecking the craziness going on inside O'Malley's Pub in the Bowery. The slow-moving sloth finally gave him a thumbs-up, camera at the ready, and Kazagger cleared his throat and began his live report. "Hello again sports fa—er, everyone! This is Lewis Kazagger, yet again coming to you live from the scene of yet _another_ bizarre riot, the latest in a seemingly endless stream of them breaking out all over the city tonight! I'm here at O'Malley's, where moments ago police arrived to _crush_ what one onlooker described as 'the worst carnage he'd seen since the last Mets game'." He gestured behind him at the bar windows as someone came crashing through, rolled to the sidewalk, and sprang up gibbering about pumpkin pie seconds before two policemen wrenched him into the back of a paddywagon. "No one seems to know _what_ occasioned the all-out free-for-all, but it appears _both_ benches have been cleared and there's blood on the ice! Perhaps _someone_ decided to slip a little wildwood weed into the free peanuts!" Kazagger dodged another crazed patron running from the pub, who jerked away from the cops, turned in circles a few times, and then smacked face-first into a nearby light pole.

Kazagger shook his head. "Has this whole city gone _crazy?_ I'm going to see if I can get any closer to the action!" He darted to the side of the door, his parsnip of a nose whipping back and forth as he watched cops storm the bar and patrons come hurtling out the window. "Folks, this is _absolute mayhem,_ and I don't mean the last hit concert LP by the famous Muppet band!" He peered uncertainly inside. "Oh no! Now it seems the police have _caught_ whatever crazybug is going around tonight!" A riot cop tore off his bulletproof vest and began beating his partner over the head with it. The other man seemed not to notice, too busy cringing and bowing obeisance to the draft beer taps. Several television screens showed some sort of reality ghost-hunter show; Kazagger was surprised to recognize Kermit the Frog writhing and yelling as what looked like twenty huge bats flew down a stairwell carrying him. "I don't recognize that movie...but it's not nearly as horrible as the show going on all around me!" Turning to face the camera again, he noticed the sloth twitching and jerking, droopy eyes wide. "Hey, you haven't been nipping the brandy again, have ya? Can you at least keep me in focus?" Dismayed, Kazagger could only stare, mouth agape, as the sloth suddenly threw down the camera and climbed the light pole.

Kazagger approached the grounded camera, seeing the flashing green light indicating it was still broadcasting. Frustrated, he picked it up and set it atop the hood of a cop car, and nearly fell blindsided by a screaming maniac hurtling past him. The young man was waving what looked like a fairy wand, wearing a tutu, and howling something indistinct. Kazagger frowned. "What's that you're trying to say, buddy? The funsters are near?" The man paused long enough to moan something, and ran off in wide loops down the street. A flash of movement at the corner of his vision made Lewis turn. Two rats in a red kids' wagon slowed their racing dog long enough for the smaller blonde rat to wave her arms at him and yell something. "The muffins are all a stranger? What?" he repeated, puzzled and growing more irritated by the minute. The rat shook her head, trying again, but still made no sense. "Bet to the show 'n' tell? Huh?" Lewis asked, confused, and the rat threw her paws in the air, rolled her eyes, and said something to the larger rat watching all this bemusedly. He cracked the reins, and the dog took off at a gallop again.

Kazagger sighed, turning once again to the lens. "Well, since _nobody_ seems to be speaking English anywhere around here tonight, guess I'll just go catch the Rangers game. For KRAK, this has been Lewis Kazagger." He didn't know how to turn off the signal, so he left the camera there, pointing at the bar and its continued carnage, throwing a disgusted look at the cowering sloth sucking his thumb atop the light pole before tromping off in search of a bar which actually kept their televisions turned up properly. He'd been dragged out here at the last minute when nobody else had shown up for work at the station, and he'd forgot to put his hearing aids in before running out the door. Shaking his head, Lewis sighed. "What the hey has gotten into everyone tonight? Reminds me of the 'Frisco World Series earthquake—it's like _deja vu_ all over again!"

Grumbling to himself, he stalked along the street, while behind him, the screams of the bar patrons and the panicked police didn't quite drown out the signal feeding from the TVs tuned to MMN through the KRAK live feed. If anyone at the station remained who could cut to commercial, they had long since abandoned their post in favor of throwing themselves out windows which didn't open...or trying to, at least. Repeatedly.


	58. Chapter 50-2

CHAPTER FIFTY (part two). _In which the Newsman bluffs; Beaker frets; and the rats' rescue mission is interrupted._

The corridor seemed deserted. The Newsman checked left and right once more before carefully tiptoeing down the center, noting empty, grimy prison cells all along it. He'd barely managed to duck into this area of the tunnels when a crowd of frightened creatures had rushed past, herded by several snarling monsters with pitchforks, stone clubs, or giant pixy stix. _They seem to be taking all the prisoners somewhere else,_ he realized. Could Gina be among them? _Not going to get far like this. I need another disguise! They know what I'm wearing!_ Desperate, he glanced into each abandoned cell as he walked along, wondering if he would get far at all just following that cattle drive as he was, or whether, if he were caught, they might throw him in with Gina...or just eat him outright. Something glittery caught his eye.

Piles of trunks and boxes littered one cell and part of the corridor in front of it. Newsie frowned, thinking one of the stickers proudly emblazoned on a trunk looked familiar. Clicking his flashlight on for a better look than the glowworms could provide, he leaned closer, startled to read: THE GREAT GONZO –PLUMBER EXTRORDINAIRE & ALL-PURPOSE DRAIN CLEANER!

 _Gonzo? What the hey?!_ Newsie flung open the trunk, half-expecting to find the weirdo crouched inside it. A horned thing leered at him. "Gaahhh!" Newsie cried out, then clamped a hand over his mouth, terrified he'd alerted the monsters to his location. He looked around feverishly, but the corridor remained silent. Exhaling slowly, he turned to the thing in the trunk, and realized after a moment's study it was some sort of costume. A long green rubber nose attached to fake glasses, green horns, and a moustache lay atop a folded sparkly green jumpsuit. More costumes, capes, and props lay below, thrown every which way but organized. _This is Gonzo's performance stuff,_ Newsie thought, worried. _He wouldn't just leave things like this! He may be crazy but he's no slob. So...where is he?_

Uneasily, he checked the contents of the other boxes and steamer trunks. Most held weird props and things he couldn't identify; one seemed to be full of those horrible lollipops with bugs embedded within the hard candy. Newie opened the lid to one that seemed wedged shut and then froze. _Oh...frog._ Any idiot would recognize the round, red sticks of dynamite, bright and cartoonish...but Newsie saw condensation droplets on the wrappers from the damp air down here. He swallowed hard, and very, very slowly, opened the lid all the way, not daring to let it rest again on the explosives sticking half-out of the trunk. _Holy cow. What was he thinki-never mind, we ARE talking about Gonzo..._

He regarded the equipment a moment in silence, pondering the possibilities. Noise from down the corridor made up his mind. Quickly Newsie stripped out of the raven costume, shivering as the cool air brushed his felt, hoping some goblin didn't come around the corner to catch him in his skivvies. The green spangly coverall fit well enough; he wasn't sure whether it was a flattering thing that his legs and Gonzo's were apparently the same diameter of skinny, but that was the least of his current issues. Carefully, he wrapped a cape around three sticks of the dynamite, and tucked them into his knapsack, hardly daring to breathe until they were secure. When a Frackle with a yellow nose wandered into the corridor, Newsie looked up blurrily from behind the fake glasses. He hadn't had time to adjust the nosepiece, and so a green wobbly thing bounced atop his own long golden nose. He scowled at the confused Frackle. "What?" he demanded, trying to make his voice sound more hoarse than normal.

The monster regarded him dubiously. "Uh...why ain't you helpin' to get the food to the kitchen?"

"Special assignment from the Underlord," Newsie growled. He bustled out of the cell and only then realized he was still holding the raven costume in one fist. He looked down at it, horrified; so did the Frackle. The monster's eyes narrowed. Newsie quickly thrust the costume at the Frackle. "That Muppet's changed clothes! I tracked him to here, but now look!" He shook the feathers in the startled monster's long face. "I want this cell tossed! Search every one of these boxes! Get a team down here _now!"_

"Er...but...but the prisoners..."

"Did I _ask_ about the prisoners?" Newsie roared, gaining more confidence in his impromptu role; perhaps hanging around the theatre all these decades hadn't been as much a waste as his mother had thought after all. "The Underlord wants that Muppet found and found _now!_ Are _you_ gonna go tell him you're too _busy_ to pitch in? Huh?"

The Frackle backed away, putting his hands up in a weak protest. "N-no, of course not, heh heh, let me just, ah, I'll get some guys, uh, right away sir!"

Newsie sighed, relieved, as the patter of footsteps died away, the Frackle hurrying to find more of its kind to toss the cell for evidence. _With any luck, they'll set off the explosives._ He tried to get the rubber nose to fit over his much larger proboscis, with no luck. He straightened up, startled, as almost immediately a whole gaggle of Frackles returned. The yellow-beaked one saluted. "One search team reporting for duty Mr TwoNose sir!" it barked at him.

Newsie started, then made himself focus. "Well! Uh...good! Now all of you had better tear _every single inch_ of this cell apart!" Getting into it, he strode importantly up and down along the assembled line of monsters. "We can't very well have a _Muppet_ running around here loose with such important doings still to come tonight—it would be an outrage and an insult! An _insult,_ I tell you! Harrumph!"

"Harrumph!" the Frackles chorused, trembling in a line before him.

Newsie paused, poking a green-gloved finger at the biggest, slowest-looking monster. "I didn't get a harrumph out of this guy!"

The yellow-beaked one whirled angrily on the laggard. "You! Give Mr TwoNose a harrumph!"

"Harrumph!" the Frackle gulped anxiously.

Newsie scowled. "You watch your tail." He lifted his chin, glaring down both his real and the fake nose at the first Frackle. "Report whatever you find to that lizardy dog thing! Get to it!"

"Yes sir!" they growled, and dove into the trunks at once. Newsie hurried out of the way, putting his fingers to his ears, wincing as the first boom echoed down the corridor.

At a junction of tunnels, he stopped, feeling lost. _I don't remember this intersection...have I been here before?_ He looked right, but nothing he could see seemed at all familiar. The cells all looked exactly the same with their occupants gone. He turned left and halted, flinching. The shaggy, green-furred thing he'd nearly run into blinked huge pop-eyes at him from atop its domed head. "Say, uh...think you're heading the wrong way, pal," it rumbled.

"Oh, uh...right! Which way is it to the prisoners' holding area?" Newsie asked, keeping his voice gruff.

The monster cocked its head sideways, blinking at him again. Newsie noticed the thing's eyes glowed in the dark like large candles. "Down to the kitchens...but hey, if ya got a minute, I could use a hand," it said, and dragged a large walrus forward with one hand and a lavender Whatnot with a fringe of brown hair in the other. "This pile of blubber is all I can really manage, and the round guy keeps wiggling something awful! These two are muffins or somethin', so they go upstairs. Think ya can take one of 'em?"

"Uh...sure!" Newsie said, and the relieved furry ogre practically threw the Whatnot at him. _At least he didn't toss the walrus._ Newsie cleared his throat anxiously, and as the monster resumed dragging the blubbering walrus along by his fat tail, Newsie steered the unhappy man in a dark suit after them.

"Yeesh," the Whatnot muttered, trudging glumly as though he realized he was now outnumbered and had better come along...but he didn't want to do so quietly. "I think you must be the ugliest monster I've seen yet! What happened, did your mother smoke uncured Red Lake No. 5 before she laid your egg or something?"

"Puh-pleeeeeze don't let them eat me," the walrus whined, beseeching Newsie; the ogre dragging him ignored him. "I'll cut back on my oatmeal, I promise! I'll...I'll never try to sabotage a cooking show again!"

Unnerved, Newsie fell back a step. When the Whatnot looked at him warily, Newsie whispered to him, "I remember the food-coloring baby-food poison scandal of Nineteen-eighty-two...I covered the story for my TV station! Who are you?"

"Huh?" The Whatnot frowned. "Why do you care who I am? You're just going to eat me anyway. I know what goes on down here, and believe you me, when this all gets back to the Health Department brass, you guys are _soooo_ gonna be fined into the middle of next year!"

"Health Department?"

"Murrow, DHMS," the Whatnot said proudly, and when Newsie stopped completely, staring at him, he explained with more than a trace of smugness in his voice, "Department of Health and Muppet Services."

"You're joking," Newsie said.

"Trust me, DHMS doesn't hire people for their sense of humor."

Newsie felt a laugh building in his throat, though he tried to restrain it. "There really _is_ an Inspector Murrow?"

The Whatnot frowned again. "That's _Chief Sectional Inspector_ Murrow to you!"

Newsie lifted his fake nose-and-glasses briefly. "The Newsman, KRAK...er...well, I used to be with that station, anyway. Listen, we need to warn the rest of the Muppets! They're in terrible danger! These brutes plan to—"

"Sacrifice us all to some kind of evil ultradimensional portal of doom, yeah," Murrow said, his contempt turning to surprise. "What are you doing down here in that ridiculous get-up?"

"Long story," Newsie said, but the ogre called over one shoulder, interrupting.

"Hey, pick it up, little dude! We gotta have any muffiny prisoners up to the ballroom pronto! Boss wants as many as possible killed all at once and that'll be easier if we got 'em all in one spot!"

Newsie grabbed Murrow's arm again, marching him after the ogre and the whimpering walrus now frantically digging his front claws into the rocky floor, to no avail. They started up a narrow, spiraling stairway of slippery stone. "I have to find my girlfriend; she's trapped down here somewhere," Newsie whispered. "Do you think you can make a break for it and warn everyone?"

"Are you kidding?" Murrow hissed. "Point me at an exit and I'll have the EPA down here faster than you can say 'multiple waste storage and consumption violations'!" He paused, lagging behind a little, while the walrus scrabbled at every single step going up, his fat belly bumping and bouncing. "I saw a lot of girls a few hours ago...saw what they did to 'em, too. What does your girl look like?"

Chilled, Newsie had to find his voice again. "She...she has long dark red hair, and light gray eyes, and she's very tall and fit and, um, curvy in places..."

"Oh dear." Murrow sighed. Newsie froze, only moving reluctantly upward again when the ogre checked behind to make sure the two were following still. "I...I'm sorry, Newsman. It may be too late."

"Too late? No...no! What do you mean, too late?" Newsie breathed, every muscle tense as he climbed the treacherous steps.

"They...they took all the girls to some reality-show taping. I was in the audience, stuck inside the gullet of some big furry thing at the time...he'd eaten too many sheep and at _least_ one cow, and his belly was so crowded my head stuck out of his mouth. I couldn't _believe_ the oral hygiene standards, I'm telling you...I don't think these guys have ever heard of flossing!"

"The girls – what happened to them?" Newsie demanded, struggling to stay quiet.

Murrow scrunched his weary face. "They were all forced to compete on some kind of dating show. And this...this very questionably licensed _doctor_ had given them something that turned them all...well, it wasn't pretty, let me tell you. And I'm almost certain he was using illegally obtained genetic samples in those completely uncontrolled substances!"

"Gina..." Newsie groaned. They reached a landing, and he stopped, feeling sick.

The ogre paused, looking back again. "Aw, too heavy for you, huh? Okay, dude...ya know, if ya put as much effort into working out your other muscles as ya do those two noses, maybe you could haul as much as I do!" With a guffaw, the monster hefted the walrus higher over its shoulder. "Well, come on soon as you get your breath back!" Cheerfully the ogre continued up the next run of stairs.

"Look...she may still be alive, but I don't know that what they've done to her is sanitary," Murrow cautioned. "You may want to wear gloves and nasal protection."

"I need to find her," Newsie said, raising his head to give Murrow an impassioned stare. "Tell me where you saw this!"

"Down there...second level, in the studio where they're filming the dating show. It was called...uh... _'I Married a Blob,'_ I think."

Newsie bit back the curses wanting to well up his throat. He looked around in a nauseous daze, desperate to find some kind of hope, some kind of way out of this nightmare. He suddenly realized the landing looked familiar: besides the stairways going up and down, there was a closed red door, and opposite that, something darker. He dug out his flashlight and checked. From a rough opening in the wall, a brick tunnel ran perpendicular to the landing and the stairways. Swinging around again, Newsie's eyes widened in surprise. _That...that's the lab I found Deadly in! And there...that's the Prohibition tunnel! That goes back to Nofrisko!_ Excitedly he pointed the tunnel out to Murrow. "I know where that goes! It leads to a secret door in the Nofrisko corporate offices!"

Murrow wrinkled his purple nose. "Those cheating artificial-color snack-cake-makers? Hah. Busted them last year for calling Mauve No. 8 'Surprise Violet'. They insisted they weren't trying to get around the ban on cephalapod-derived additives and it had been an honest mistake..."

"The tunnel's blocked," Newsie remembered.

Murrow sighed. "Well, forget that, then. Look, nice of you to want to get me out of here, but I think maybe we're stuck now...I heard the big lug saying earlier that there wasn't any point in trying to get out of the hotel, 'cause not only is the whole place crawling with buggy things, but they have someone called Mortimer outside to make sure no one gets out! So we may as well go on up..."

 _If only the city had started their demolition of the entrance already!_ Newsie scowled, thinking. _They just HAD to drag their feet, and there's no way past that concrete without blasting...it..._ He blinked. He turned to Murrow. "You know anything about explosives?"

The Whatnot stared at him as though he'd just grown a third nose.

Within five minutes, one lavender health inspector was hurrying – _carefully_ – along the disused speakeasy tunnel holding a wrapped bundle of sweating dynamite, and the Newsman was bounding downstairs so fast he slipped and skidded on his back to the bottom. He didn't care. Picking himself up, he ran to the end of the corridor, found the stairs to the next lower level, and with a grimly set jaw, headed for the taping studios.

Beaker checked the readouts again, his gaze flicking from one to another in quick succession. Some very odd things had started showing up on the equipment; twice now he'd heard screams and then silence from mic feeds, but when he cut the live view over to those locations, no one could be seen. A couple of the teams had started out promising enough, tramping up and down stairs and along the musty hallways of the hotel, but now their sensor signals seemed to be all over the place. He looked at the PKE meter again. "Mee mee meeeee!" he exclaimed.

Bunsen didn't look up, playing a keyboard which directed the jerky movements of a giant spider puppet which was currently harassing Wanda and Walter on the second floor, though Lew only threw fish at it, chortling. "What is it _now,_ Beaker?" the scientist sighed.

"Meee mee me me me meep, meep mee!"

"And is it over the limit we spoke of yet?"

Beaker looked again at the readout, which now said one-point-seven. "Mo," he admitted, but then argued, "Mo moo mee mee mee meep memee!"

"And _I_ think you're paying too much attention to that silly psychokinetic number when you _ought_ to be focusing on our guests!" Bunsen snapped, turning rapidly to check the pneumatics on the evil-clown-in-a-box which didn't seem to be jumping out quite high enough from the bed in room two-thirteen...although Link was howling and fleeing anyway, with a glum Strangepork trailing after him yet again. "Beaker, could you please just worry about the cameras? I have enough to deal with, trying to keep everyone scared!" He noticed a sensor registering the triggering of the headless-chicken illusion in room three-forty, making the Chef wave his cleaver in astonishment while Sam threw his wings over his scandalized eyes. "Good, at least _that_ one's working right..." He sighed. "Honestly, I had no idea that keeping up with so many things all at once would be so _taxing_ for you, Beaker! Now come on, let's give it the ol' college try, shall we? Just like Professor Boxheavie's Thursday petrochemical lab, right?"

Shaking his head, Beaker fell silent. Bunsen clearly wasn't concerned about the anomalies they kept running into: tricks working oddly, people winding up somewhere other than where they'd last been seen on-camera, mics cutting off for no apparent reason. He noticed a flickering bunch of lights on his sensor readouts, and tapped the screen, frowning. All of the sensors registered to the Electric Mayhem suddenly winked out.

Startled, Beaker flashed through various camera feeds, trying to locate them. They'd last been marked on the running timecode for the digital feeds right outside the third-floor ballroom, but the cameras inside that room didn't respond to Beaker's repeated attempts to bring them up onscreen. He tried the hall outside the ballroom, but the place appeared empty. "Meeee! Meep meepmee mee..."

With a groan of frustration, Bunsen whirled in his swivel chair and pushed his glasses up his nose. "For goodness' sake, Beaker! What _is_ the matter?"

Beaker pointed out the Mayhem's sensors...which suddenly all flickered back on. Astonished, he leaned over, peering at the readout's GPS positioning for the group. _Second-floor south wing? How'd they get down there so fast? Didn't they already cover that section?_

Bunsen shook his head. "You see? Just a minor glitch. I _told_ you we should've run a more thorough test of the fear-o-sensor tabs!" Beaker stared at him, jaw dropped at this shameless blame-projection. Honeydew shrugged. "See? Just try to keep up with everyone, all right? We want to make this a show everyone will remember for months! Scooter said that the more remarkable the whole night, the more everyone will want to see the new scary movie!" He turned back to his traps and tricks, and giggled at the blinking light which signaled that the collapsing-stair gag had just caught the stage manager and his wife as they tried to climb to the attic. "Ho ho ho ho! Speak of the devil! I dare say he'll remember _that_ for a while!"

Beaker sighed, and switched the live feed to the cameras on the hall where the Mayhem were. He frowned. He checked the readout, checked the camera number list, and frowned again, peering at the screen. Nothing moved in the darkness...yet the sensors indicated the whole group was walking along that very corridor. Worried, Beaker looked at the PKE meter again. _One-point-eight. And climbing._

He squinted at the screen. Remembering the joystick controls, he maneuvered the lead camera for two-south, panning it slowly to see the whole dark hallway. Nothing at all showed up besides closed doors and tattered webs waving in a small breeze. He couldn't even see anyone's headlamp in the gloom. Beaker shivered, hesitating. _Maybe it is just a glitch...maybe the sensors need to be recalibrated?_

He didn't really believe that, much as he wanted to.

In the south wing of the second floor of the Happy Lotus Hotel, the floorboards lay silent and untrod...while along the dark ceiling, a troop of oversized centipedes and biter beetles crawled steadily along, each wearing the little orange sensor still transmitting their signals back to the control room. In the ballroom on the third floor, indistinct figures wriggled uselessly in a giant web, eight feet off the claw-marked parquet.

Floyd Pepper's mouth hadn't quite been smothered in dirty gray silk. He blinked into the darkness. Next to him, he heard Animal chewing on the webbing, apparently without success.

"What a _drag,_ man," he sighed.

"Whooooaaa sparky!" Bubba shouted, digging in his heels and tugging on the reins. Panting, the cocker spaniel slowed to a halt.

Rhonda dared to open her eyes again. The last few minutes she'd been positive she'd be jolted from the wagon at any moment. "Why are we stopping?"'

Bubba nodded ahead at a solemn, pockmarked, familiar hulk of a building just past the crooked angle of the street. Neon lights advertising restaurants and souvenir stands provided just enough gaudy light to see the once-formal entry to the hotel. "'Cause I t'ink we're here. Plus..." He looked back, grimacing. "We seem ta have picked the only dog in town belongin' to an octageneric marathon runner." A dowager in a hiked-up dress slowed at the last corner, panting, but when she spotted the dog and wagon, she lifted a finger and shook it threateningly at them.

"Mr Puffies! Bad, bad puppy! You get away from those nasty rodents! They'll give you fleas!"

"Hey, you ain't no Springtime Barbie yourself, lady!" Bubba yelled back. He hopped from the wagon, offering Rhonda a paw as she gingerly climbed down to the sidewalk. Bubba slapped the rump of the dog, and with a whimper, he trotted toward his mistress. "Sheesh. Thought he was havin' da time of his life, and looka dat. Runnin' back to dat old dame like we wasn't any fun at all."

Rhonda saw a vast shadow overwhelming the dim illumination of the shop signs, spreading across the middle of the narrow street. A puddle in the gutter held some muddy water yet, runoff from the melted snow which hadn't actually reached the storm drain, blocked by a mass of trash and plastic bags at the curb. She stared at the ripples on its previously still surface as a low boom sounded.

Bubba paused, looking around. "What da hey? Sounded like an explosion..."

"I don't think so," Rhonda gulped as another tremor shook the concrete, sending wild ripples across the puddle. She raised her eyes slowly to the massive thing striding around the side of the hotel. She grabbed Bubba's elbow. "Uh...much as I really do appreciate how far your machismo has got us tonight..." He looked at her quizzically, and she pointed up, and up, and up... "I think we _really_ oughta run now."

With another booming footstep, the biggest troll either rat had ever seen hove into full view, his shadow blotting the very moon as he loomed over the old hotel. Yellow eyes the size of bulldozer wheels gleamed brighter than neon, and slowly the ugly lips stretched into a hungry smile.


	59. Chapter 51

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE. _In which a shell is found; the Underlord is frustrated by glibness; the Newsman takes a hostage; and the brothers McGurk reunite._

Uncle Deadly trod warily, silently, as he walked down the center aisle of the cavern amphitheatre. The screen at the back was pale and blank, and only a few bits of wounded popbugs trying to drag themselves across the rough floor gave any indication of the rally which had taken place earlier. Deadly peered into the dark corners at the edges of the room. "You idiots...have you never seen a film? That screen isn't the actual megalomaniac we seek, merely a projection of him! – and one with inferior sound editing, at that!"

A raggedly pink thing peeked out from over Deadly's left shoulder. "Awww _aww,_ " it murmured, googly eyes swinging in every direction. When it shoved its antennae in Deadly's face, he snarled and pushed it away. It hopped and shuffled jerkily along the floor, soon joined by its blue twin. "Mm. Aww. Boss in con-trol."

"Con-trol. Con-trol. Yip yip yip yip yip con-trol," the blue one agreed.

Deadly halted by the screen, glaring around in disgust. "I bloody well _know_ he's in charge of this whole sordid mess, you fools! What I want to know is _where_ the great coward is currently hiding!"

"Con-trol," Pink repeated, his tentacles scratching at the edge of the screen. "Awww, yip yip yip, in con-trol."

Deadly passed a cold hand slowly down his snout, struggling for patience. "I said I _know_ that, you sorry excuse for a dishrag! Now help me _find_ him, or so help me I'll—"

Blue went to aid his friend, and together they tugged the edge of the huge flexible screen away from the narrow tunnel it had partially concealed. "Mn. Aww. Boss in con-trol, there, yiiiiip yip yip yip yip yip!"

Deadly nodded, grasping what they'd been trying to explain. "In...control. Yessss...a secret lair from which he spreads his sickening influence over this whole domain! Of course!" The Martians shied away from him as he strode toward the tunnel entrance. He paused, and then slowly petted the pink one atop its bulbous eyes. "Good boy." Pink raised himself higher, inexpressibly proud, and fell in step eagerly behind the spectral dragon. Blue bounced along behind, hoping to be recognized too. The two of them shoved each other jealously, and crashed into Deadly's thick spiked tail when he stopped. Green glowing eyes fixed them in a cold glare, and they froze. "Shhhhhh!"

Cautiously, the expeditionary force advanced down the slickly-moldy, musty-smelling tunnel. Blue tripped on his tentacles, and angrily shoved Pink. "Aw! Move! Yip yip yip!"

Pink shoved back. "You move! Awwwwwwwyip yip yip yip!"

A long snarling snout thrust between them shut both of them up abruptly. "Quiet, you imbeciles! Harken..." The dragon swept one languorous arm ahead, where the tunnel opened into a dark space, with hundreds of tiny LED indicators blinking or glowing. "See there: our quarry naps, unaware of the doom about to befall him!" Deadly chuckled quietly, and the Yipyips shivered and fell back a respectful step, mouths clamped shut and eyes wide. In the center of the room ahead, a giant command chair held a slumped, dark figure, his outline barely visible against the rows of television monitors all showing some sort of Muppet haunted-house film. "Let me handle this, boys. _This_ is a task for a phantom, mwah ha ha ha!"

The raggedy creatures peeked from the edge of the tunnel opening as Deadly slunk across the cold concrete floor, claws at the ready, eyes glowing in anticipation. Suddenly he sprang up, leaping in front of the still figure, cape spread wide and a triumphant cackle bursting from that chillingly mellifluous throat. "Ha ha _hah!_ Your reign of horror is at an _end,_ you fiend!" Deadly's clawed feet thumped onto the generous lap of the motionless figure in the chair, and he gestured grandly, chin held high. _"I,_ Uncle Deadly, the _scariest_ Muppet of them all, have come to call you to account for your misguided and really quite _badly_ done hysterical-dictator routine, and..." He halted, frowning. The Underlord hadn't so much as twitched. Deadly was accustomed to more histrionic reactions from his prey; why, once, an entire busload of Japanese tourists had run out of the theatre so fast they'd forgotten their digital cameras! He peered closely at the thing beneath him. "I say, old bean, are you getting any of this? Should I speak up?"

The Martians looked at one another, confused. They crept into the room, careening at odd angles all over the banks of controls and long shelves of server racks, wriggling among cables, until they could see what Deadly was now scowling at. The dragon lifted one limp arm from the side of the chair and let it drop in contempt. "I don't believe it. A fat suit? Really? How _very_ crass."

Pink scuttled closer, daring a poke at the thickset leg swathed in black cloth, then scurried back, but the thing in the chair didn't move. Emboldened, Blue jumped up and poked its shoulder; the lumpy, blank-faced head lolled, its red eyesockets dull and lifeless. Deadly reached down, seeing a small switch, and flicked it; the whole black mass of fabric and foam quivered, and the eyes lit up, piercing red beams shooting across the room. The Martians gulped their lower jaws over their eyeballs in fear, but Deadly merely snorted, and then turned the thing back off. When Blue dared to peek, Deadly was standing in front of the chair, thoughtfully stroking his whiskers. "Hmm. A fat suit with electric eyes...empty." He picked up a flap of shapeless stuff from the enormous belly and flipped it open to reveal a hollow shell, big enough to seat the larger Muppets comfortably. Deadly turned, his sharp eyes taking in the web camera pointed at the chair, the banks of switches and keyboards. "In control, indeed. Controlling their perception of himself, it would seem!" He snorted again, then noticed the monitors. Except for one which seemed to be tuned to some sort of monster talk show with a rowdy audience, all the rest showed various views of a large, mostly-empty building, with long dark corridors, web-dusted rooms, and here and there one of the performers from the Muppet Theatre reacting to some jiggered trap or trick. Deadly's gaze flicked from one to another of these views, slowly understanding what was taking place.

Blue and Pink exchanged a worried look. "Erp. Mm. Dead-ly in con-trol?" Pink suggested, and Blue backed him up timidly: "Con-trol? Yip?"

The dragon looked at them with a growing evil smile. "Oh yes, my faithful little dishrags. I am, interestingly enough, and now I believe I shall do something about it." He studied the controls a while longer, very glad for once that Scooter had insisted on leaving an old computer around the prop room turned on overnight in case the phantom had wanted to play with it; though he didn't at all care for the way modern technology had ruined classic film techniques, at the moment he was fully appreciative of the phrase "ghost in the machine." He looked at one screen which said _BROADCASTING SIGNAL STRENGTH,_ with a continual image of a radio tower sending forth tiny waves. Another tiny gauge below that was labeled _FEAR SIGNAL,_ and the needle twitching on it was in the peak range. Deadly cracked his knuckles, wriggled his fingers delightedly, and ceremoniously pressed the _OFF_ button on them both. "While the maniac's away, the spooks shall play," he chuckled. "That takes care of _that_ , at least...now..." He frowned, looking at the screens showing the Muppet pigs running from a clown jack-in-the-box which began hopping after them, and Wanda suddenly vanishing behind a revolving panel as a large horned thing leaned out, grabbed her, and closed them both inside a wall, leaving Walter staring around in fright.

Deadly shook his head. "This is not good. We must find this hideous leader and stop whatever it is he's planning." With a deep frown and a flourish, he swept from the room, heading back along the slippery tunnel. " _Whatever_ he truly is, I think he's pulled the wool over the monsters' eyes long enough! Time to end this masquerade!"

The Yipyips scurried after him, perplexed. "Boss...sheep?" Blue asked.

Disgusted, Deadly merely shook his head, striding along without looking back. Pink tentacled his ignorant friend, rolling his eyes. "Nope! Nope nope nope! Boss – cow!"

The argument continued until Deadly whirled on them both, his tail smacking them. A cold glare and a baring of fangs served to quiet the restless things, and then they hurried on, seeking the Underlord of this strange production studio.

Eustace did his best not to comment on the oddity of the shroud-wrapped entity crawling slowly up the vertical rock shaft above him. Seeing the Underlord divest himself of his cocoon of flesh had been unnerving enough earlier; having to climb this dusty tunnel with his eyes averted and still keep his ears alert to the reports coming in over his headset was struggle enough for now without dwelling on the shock of his master's grim unveiling. Above them both, the white-furred giant caterpillar writhed and crawled, clearing away any lingering webs or lesser bugs for the dark lord's passage. His whiskers hadn't grown back enough to warn him when the Underlord suddenly halted, and Eustace nearly ran into the rag-wrapped, thick legs braced against the rough walls. Frightened, the doglizard scrambled back, ending up clutching frantically at what clawholds he could get; tiny pebbles and dust fell silently past him down the long shaft. Eustace heard the rocks patter far, far below, and gulped; he'd never particularly enjoyed heights.

The Underlord's voice was harsh and out-of-breath. "Eustace...what word on our friends' progress in the hotel?"

"A-a moment, my liege," Eustace gasped, and adjusted the headset. "Flunky! Your Underlord requessstsss a report! How many Muppetsss are now in our grasssp?"

A confused, mellow voice came back over the open channel. "Oh! Uh, sorry, almost kinda forgot you guys were listening in, huh huh..."

Eustace grimaced. The Frackle on the other end had claimed to have worked as a production assistant before, which garnered him this position tonight, but Eustace wished now he'd picked some other monster...someone with more brains and less mouth. "How _many_ Muppetsss are in the ballroom, you garrolousss imbesssile?"

"Oh, uhhmmmm..." Eustace waited impatiently. Above him, he heard the Underlord panting; this was surely the most activity the corpulent boss had managed in over a year. Eustace thought of the weird fleshy cocoon abandoned in the control room, and shuddered; in his awfulest nightmares, even he had never considered his master might have some sort of insectoid physiognomy. Swathed as he now was in dirty rags, it was impossible to tell just what he might have evolved into...and the transformation of the Grand Ascension was yet to come tonight... Static crackled in Eustace's tender ear, making him wince and then growl. "Uh, heh heh, sorry, uh, well, I had to go ask Clarence about that, and _he_ had to check with Steve, y'know, and Steve was kinda busy doing that whole wrapping-up-a-snack thing, you know how he is; and so Clarence had to yell at him to save the cookies for later, and Steve whined a lot, heh heh, and meanwhile –"

"Jussst tell me how many Muppetsss are tied up in the ballroom now, you idiot!" Eustace snarled. Sensing eyes upon him, he glanced up, saw the dark shape of the Underlord waiting above him, and flinched, immediately averting his gaze. "Hisss magnifisssenssse is en route to the ballroom and wisssshessss a ssstatussss report!"

"Oh! Wow! Uh, okay, hey, hey you guys!" Eustace winced at the Frackle on the other end yelling with his mouthpiece still in place. "Uh, the boss is on his way up, so look sharp, okay!" The voice dropped back to a droning level. "Okay, uh, well, lemme see here...according to the figures I have so far, which, ya gotta remember, are kind of in flux, so to speak, see, because the prisoners are still being Muppetnapped and dragged in here as we speak, so technically –"

 _"How. Many. Muppetsss?"_ Eustace barked.

"Uhhhhhhhhhh...eleven so far are here, and then my understanding is, which as you know I can't actually confirm yet, but it was reported to me a little while ago, that Carl had two ready, and there's at least a couple more being brought up from the dungeons, or at least that's what they tell me, but ya know you really never should take anything these guys say without a grain of sand, heh heh, oh, no, wait, that's not the right saying, is it? I mean, a grain of _sand,_ wait, isn't that from that 'Time in a Bubble' song or something...man, Jim Croce's dead, did you know that? What a bummer, right? Oh, but back to what I was saying: uh...oh, right, grain of sand, right right..."

Disgusted, Eustace turned down the volume. The droning continued unabated just below the level of comprehensive speech. "Well?" The Underlord's quiet tone bore a definite contempt. Eustace squirmed, trying not to dislodge himself from the perilous shaft.

"Ah, your ineffable sssliminesss, it sssseemsss that only thirteen of the Muppetsss are ready for the sssacrifissse thusss far."

Coldness radiated down the tunnel. "Tell them to hurry. My hour of triumph approaches, Eustace, and I will _not_ be denied my rightful glory because some moron finds the task I have set him too _difficult!"_

"Yesss my lord, of courssse my lord," the doglizard whined, hating the sound of fear in his own voice. He couldn't keep his tail from twitching. Turning the headset back up, he roared over it, interrupting the still-rambling production monster: "Tell everyone to get their tailssss in gear and _move!"_

"Oh! Uh – right! Sure! On it! Right away!" the Frackle responded, startled, and then yelled at the top of his considerable lungs: "Hey you lazy cows! The boss says move it or lose it already! And I don't think I have to tell you what you'll be losing if – oh, what? I do? Oh. Well, okay, see, ya know, it's really sort of a pretty common expression, and...huh...wow, how about that, heh heh, ya know, I'm not really sure _what_ it actually means... You ever think about stuff like that? Huh? Yeah, I mean, sometimes, this stuff really gets to me; I mean some nights I just lay awake in my bunk and _think_ about stuff, ya know? Well, really deep stuff, like, uh...like, what was the Brain _actually_ pondering all those times, ya know? Like he always had to be so _mysterious_ about it, right?"

Eustace gritted his teeth. The caterpillar clicked and squeaked something, and the Underlord rumbled, "Indeed. Onward. If anything should go ill tonight, Eustace, I am holding _you_ responsible; _you_ assigned these fools their posts." He paused; then, as he braced his legs and reached upward, added, "And find Van Neuter for me. I want him present at the Ascension."

"Yesss my heart-ssstopping horror, sssir," Eustace hissed, giving his lord a moment to resume the climb before he tried to find the next clawhold up. He half-listened to the idiot on the other end of the headset going on, and on, and on, about nothing at all, and decided when he reached the top, his first order of business would be to shred the monster's tongue from his beak.

Phil Van Neuter was at that moment hurrying along a studio corridor, an anxious Thatch McGurk trailing after. "Oh honestly! I was right in the middle of tying my bow tie for the big thing tonight! How am I supposed to attend a black-rot affair looking like—" A crash and a howl from a room at the end of the hall made him stop; Thatch bumped into him, and the doctor whirled to glare. "Thatch! Look where you're going, you bumbling bacterium-brain!"

Before either of them could go on, silence suddenly fell, and the abrupt peace in the corridor was more unnerving than the commotion had been. Thatch clasped his paws together, blinking around Van Neuter's skinny frame. The vet hesitated. "Oh. Well. Guess they sorted it all out, heh heh...well! No need for me to keep—"

A bloodcurdling scream and a very loud clang echoed down the hall; Muppet and monster cringed. "What on earth?" Van Neuter wondered. Warily, he advanced to the door, one of many in this wing which housed simple bunks for the monsters not on-duty to catch a few winks. He reached for the doorknob, but a ragged howl sounded from just beyond. Van Neuter grabbed his assistant by the scruff of his neck and dragged him around in front. "See what the heck all that ruckus is!"

Unhappily, the three-eyed monster glared at his boss, but slowly his fingers closed around the knob and turned it. The door swung open with a slow creak. One purple monster and one spindly mad scientist blinked in stunned silence. Within the bunkroom, a large blue ogre with bright orange hair trembled, stuffed underneath the lowest flat bed. Panting and brandishing two fistfuls of orange fur, the half-dressed blonde woman in the center of the room sensed company, and slowly turned. As Van Neuter and Thatch stared at her, jaws slack, she snarled, and her mouth suddenly sprouted tusks.

The monster under the bed gasped at them, "Help...me..."

With a wild shriek, the blonde launched herself forward – then straight up. Van Neuter's head wobbled as he jerked his gaze to the ceiling. The blonde now had multiple legs clutching the stubby stalactites, and she bared dripping fangs at the intruders. "Huzza wuzza," Thatch breathed in astonishment.

"She's...she's unstable," Van Neuter said. "It's one of the Susans! But...but she shouldn't still be changing back and forth like that! Oh no. Oh dearie dearie. The serum must be breaking down somehow!" He put his head in his hands. "How could this be? I tested and retested that formula!" He grabbed Thatch by his sloped shoulders. "You didn't substitute any of the ingredients, did you? _Tell_ me you didn't do that!"

Thatch winced. "Uh...ah digga doo zzat." He gave Van Neuter his most apologetic look; after all, he hadn't seen what difference it would make to use _brown_ giant caterpillar goop instead of _yellow..._

Van Neuter grimaced. "Oh, drat it all! Thatch, if you make me stain my nice clean lab coat, you're going to pay for the drycleaning again!" He fished in the voluminous pockets until he found what he wanted, and pulled out a capped syringe with a wickedly long needle. "Here we go; this should calm her down, at least, and hold her until I can get back to the lab and mix up a quick stabilizing agent..."

Susan (or whatever she previously went by) spied the needle and dropped on the doctor before he could uncap it. "Graaaaaagh!" she yelled, and proceeded to pummel the vet's bouncy head with fists of hard chitin.

"Aaaagh! Ow ow ow ow ow _stoooop!"_ Van Neuter shrieked. He thrust his skinny head out the doorway. "Security! Ow! Haaaaalllp! Securiteeeee!"

He was doing his best to block the blows with upraised arms when he heard an eloquent grumble behind him. "Right, what's all this then?"

"Oh thank heavens," Van Neuter gasped, freeing himself momentarily from the enraged Susan by tugging the surprised ogre out from under the bed and putting him in her path and her wrath, which at least bought him time enough to turn around and address the guard. "Restrain this creature! She's gone completely berzerk! She—" He choked to a halt, seeing the glare the guard was giving him over a beaky nose and long, dragging mustaches...and yellow-spotted purple fur...and crows' feet.

Geoff Fauxworthy grinned nastily. "Hello, old sport, remember me?"

He whacked Van Neuter over the head with one huge bat-wing at the exact same moment that Susan tossed the wailing ogre across the barracks and set upon the hapless vet from the rear.

Several minutes, a lot of screaming, and one completely shredded lab coat later, the vet managed to escape by throwing Thatch at the both of them and running for his life. Knowing the smaller monster wouldn't last long enough to buy him more than a few seconds, Van Neuter took multiple twists and abrupt turns until he could no longer hear even distantly the shrieking of his assistant. He slowed, wheezing, eyes fixed wide and fingers trembling. "Oh my stars...oh my saintly Aunt Buxom...what has that idiot done? Oh, oh, I'll have to fix this immediately...what if the other Susans are...oh no. Oh no no no. This is terrible!" Trying to catch his breath, he picked a direction at random in the next intersection of tunnels, and hurried along it, thinking aloud. "Which is worse: all the Susans going ballistic, or not turning up on time in a nice coat and tie? Well, hm, from a strictly _statistical_ standpoint, maybe the Susans are worse...all that screaming might interfere with the show tapings...but His Dark Underwearness _did_ sound very firm about me attending tonight, oh – what if he's going to give me an award? Oooh! On national TV! Me! 'To Doctor Phil Van Neuter, for Excellence in the Field of Trans-Species Transitional Transmogrification, with a Side of Transparent Troglyditery!' Well, certainly I wouldn't want to miss _that!_ Still...it is very odd that the Susans are all experiencing substantial cellular fluctuations...y'know, I really should check and make sure that they— _whoah!"_

The vet pinwheeled his arms a moment, startled into a full stop by the greenish, demonic-looking two-nosed thing in front of him. "Well, for goodness' sakes, would you watch where you're going? Can't you see I'm in the middle of a 'Beautiful Mind' rant here?"

The green monster stared at him through thick glasses; Van Neuter, puzzled, realized the thing was wearing two pairs of spectacles, one glassy pair underneath plastic lenses which seemed somehow attached to one of the noses and a green mustache. "Dr Van Neuter? What the hey are you doing down here?" a gruff voice asked.

Van Neuter frowned, studying the odd creature. "Have we met?"

To his surprise, the monster yanked off his face. Van Neuter shrieked and covered his eyes, then slowly peeked out between his fingers as the monster barked at him, "Yes we have, and frankly I'm not shocked to learn you're in league with the horrible weirdoes down here!"

Van Neuter pulled his hands away and stared directly at a scowling, yellow-nosed Muppet in a green sparkly coverall. The Newsman pointed an accusing finger. "So _you're_ behind the awful things going on down here!"

"Don't be ridiculous," the vet snapped, "I'm not _behind_ anything! I'm on the _leading edge_ of transmogrificational cross-species genetic splicing as transmitted through an intravenous unstable solution!"

Newsie gaped at him. "You...what?"

Van Neuter sighed, shaking his head. "Don't you keep up with the leading cryptobiological newsletters? I don't run this ridiculous maze of crawling little creatures, I see to it that everything that gets dragged down here winds up sprouting appendages they never knew they needed and now can't live without! Literally, can't live without them, the changes are wonderfully permanent." He frowned. "Well, or they will be, anyway, soon as I figure out what went wrong with my serum..."

He started when the Newsman let out a cry of anguish and grabbed his arm. _"No!_ That's insane! That's – that's hideous!"

"Er, well, I try," Van Neuter said, too pleased to offer more than false modesty.

"The girls!" Newsie snapped, shaking Van Neuter's arm roughly. "What have you done to them? Where are they? You have my _girlfriend_ down here, d—it, and I want her back – just like she was!"

The vet's eyes narrowed behind his lab goggles. "Well, don't be so snooty about it. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, you know...maybe you should just broaden your standards more!"

To his utter shock, the innocuous-looking Muppet suddenly twisted his arm behind his back. Hard. "You're going to take me to Gina," he growled, "and undo whatever you've done, or else!"

"Ack! All right, all right, no need for physical confrontations of any sort, sheesh!" Van Neuter complained. When he felt the Newsman hesitate, Van Neuter jabbed at him with the syringe still in his hand. "Hah! Sleep with the centipedes, you busybodied bignose! You...ah..." He fell silent, staring, realizing at the same moment Newsie did that the cap was still on the needle.

They lurched apart. Van Neuter grabbed the cap and frantically tried to undo it and bare the sedative he'd meant for Susan; Newsie flung his knapsack around and thrust a hand inside, desperate for some sort of weapon, but he'd given the dynamite to Murrow. With a cry of triumph, the vet popped the rubber cap off the needle and swung it at the Newsman. "Hah _hahh *snap* owwwwww!_ Owie owie owie!" He jumped wildly, shaking his hand, fingers trapped smartly by the sprung mousetrap now clipping them painfully shut.

Newsie blinked; he'd been thinking of hurling the marbles at the skinny vet's noggin, but when Van Neuter had jabbed, he'd countered simply by thrusting the open knapsack at him...with a result unexpected but workable. "And there's more where that came from!" he blustered. He grabbed the vet's trapped hand, yanked the syringe loose, and smashed it against the rock wall of the tunnel. "Tall redhead, name of Gina! Take me to her _now_ or this'll be the _least_ of your injuries, you crackpot!"

Reluctantly, Van Neuter hobbled along, failing to retrieve his hand as the Newsman jerked him mercilessly ahead. "Ow...okay! Okay! Just stop _pulling_ on it! She's...I think _that_ Susan wound up with the bachelor blob..."

"The _what?"_ Horrified, Newsie yanked even harder on the trap, making Van Neuter yelp. "Take me to her! _Now!"_

Thatch McGurk, sans the feathers atop his head and with the leftmost eye squinched shut, slammed the door behind him, panting deeply. He'd no sooner extricated himself from the beatdown in Dumbo Barracks when he was set upon by two more of the Susans, shifting wildly between girls and monsters and really unreasonably displeased about such a simple thing...

A low growl from behind the door startled him. With a stifled yelp, Thatch backed away, watching the metal-barred oaken door bow and shake under the heavy blows now accompanying the snarling. He thought he heard that failed experiment Fauxworthy yell, "Get a crowbar!" Terrified, Thatch whirled, ready to bolt, and nearly fell over when he saw who was standing a foot away from him.

"Tagga!" yelled the pink-furred, three-eyed monster.

"Razza!" Thatch cried, surprised.

The brothers pounded one another on the back, at least until Thatch groaned and pulled away, holding his aching spine as best he could. He noticed a sleepy-eyed, scrawny blue thing watching their reunion. Thatch peered curiously at it; he'd thought at first it was a Frackle, but on closer inspection... "Razza? Thazza Muppah!"

Rosie glanced back. Gonzo half-raised a hand. "Uh, hi there. Gonzo the Great."

Thatch started to raise a brow at his brother, but his head hurt too much. "Ow. Razza, whazza gibba?"

Hurriedly Rosie explained their plight. "Gazza rubba saggafice fah Undahlabbaraggabagga, buh nabba wanna! Gagga gebbowddaheeg!"

"Ohhh." Thatch considered this. After what he'd just been through, he wasn't feeling particularly loyal to anyone. This was his little brother, though, and if this freaky Whatever was his friend... Thatch nodded. "Azza razzah. Uhhhmmm...wabba gedda doo hoggell, eh ruzza skape?"

Rosie shivered, looking up, imagining the awful carnage no doubt taking place right this minute a few floors up. "Egga _hobell?_ Roo _zerrous?"_

Gonzo interrupted. "Uh, nice to meet you and all, but I think maybe we should continue this discussion somewhere there isn't a door about to be busted down by the hordes of Hades?"

The brothers looked at him, looked at the creaking, bending door about to pop off its hinges, and heard the sawing, pounding, jackhammering sounds emanating scarily from the other side. "Goog ibbeah!" they chorused. Thatch gestured at a side tunnel, and the three headed through it and out of sight before the door crashed open.

Geoff Fauxworthy stuck his head through, brandishing the jackhammer, then let it drop with a crunch to the rock floor when no one presented themselves for more tender mercies. "Bloody frog," he cursed softly. He turned to the three Susans all peering through the settling cloud of dust. "Seems they've scarpered...well. How do you ladies feel about tea?"

They murmured and shrugged. The half-monster, half-Muppet put his wings around two of them and took the third by a paw. "I just happen to know the most _delightful_ little Russian tea-room a few blocks up...if we take the underground, we can be there by supper..."

Running through the corridors, Gonzo tried to orient himself, but every rough-walled tunnel looked like every other hard-carved passageway. "Uh...are we going the right way?"

"Yazza."

"Yagga."

"So are you guys really brothers?" Gonzo asked when they paused, checking around a corner before proceeding. They turned to him, yellowish and pinkish eyes staring, tongues sticking out past mouthfuls of teeth, yellowed horns perked.

Rosie studied his older brother a moment, then laughed. "Ahhh...haw haw haw! Gazza, hibba eyebahh gabba pokey!" Thatch scowled a moment, then poked Rosie's leftmost eyeball with a clawed finger. "Yaaaahhhgg!" Rosie yelped.

Gonzo nodded, illumination in his expression finally. "Oh yeah! Yeah, _now_ I see the resemblance." The brothers glared at each other, then checked the side openings to other tunnels as they crept quietly along. Gonzo walked after them, unconcerned. "So, uh...this means we're gonna miss the party, huh?" They stopped, staring at him. Gonzo blinked from one to the other. "Er...never mind. Right. Carry on."

When they reached a spiraling staircase of slippery gray rock, foot traffic picked up. The monsters hung back as an enormous, lumbering greenish-gray thing with a scaly tail and gills hauled itself up the stairs one at a time, followed by a much more impatient purple-shagged monster with a drooling mouth and leonine nose beneath cowlike horns. "Move it, move it!" the shaggy thing urged, earning a backward scowl from the scaly thing.

"Hold your horns! I'm goin' as fast as I can...man..." the green, gilled thing wheezed. "Did they put in _more_ stairs? Always seems that way..." Suddenly he spotted the brothers creeping out from the shadows. "Hey, what're you guys doing here? Come for the party?"

Rosie and Thatch glanced at one another, worried. Gonzo pushed in between them to wave at the larger monsters. "Hey! We didn't miss the cake yet, did we?"

The scaly thing laughed, surprised. "Naw, ya didn't miss nothin'! Good job, guys, fetchin' him along! Boss wants him upstairs with th' rest of 'em!" He looked uncertainly at the two black eyes, one each on the brothers McGurk. "And don't _you_ two look like a coupla' fashion plates. Way to dress up."

The shaggy thing began drooling more copiously, and wiped his wide mouth with a hand, then absently began chewing his own fingers. "Um...num num...plates..."

"Knock it off, Lunchy."

Shrugging, Rosie started up the stairs. Gonzo followed, and Thatch brought up the rear of the freak train. Gonzo nodded to himself, pleased that he recalled the way out although it had been a month since he'd seen it, oh, that seemingly long-ago day when he bravely entered a decrepit old wreck in Chinatown with the goal of doing something really impressive for his chickie-girl! Sobered immediately, Gonzo wondered where she was right now. _Didn't that doggy guy say she'd be at some charity thing tonight? Where the big gate-to-heck-opening ceremony is also taking place? Wait. I can't leave yet – I need to find Camilla!_ He tugged at Rosie's inch-thick fur; it was still sort of patchy across his back, and the monster jumped at the unexpected pull. "Rosie!" Gonzo whispered, "What about Camilla? If she's gonna be at this party, I need to find her before we can leave!"

Rosie shook his head. "Nabba! Nabba weyba, Gazza! Effa _soobysigh!"_

"Wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of soobysighdal tendencies," Gonzo said with a shrug. "C'mon, you gotta get me in there! What if...what if the Underlord isn't only planning to sacrifice regular Muppets...what if...oh, the horror! The sheer hair-curling ignominy of it!" The brothers paused, bewildered, and Gonzo burst out in a wail: "What if they're gonna sacrifice _chicken Muppets?"_

Ahead of them, Luncheon Counter Monster chuckled raspily. "Sounds good...can I get a glass of water with that?"

The scaly thing laughed wetly, his wide hips jiggling as he slowly climbed the stairs. "Yeah, yeah, an' a piece of dry white toast! Now come on...best not keep the Bossmonster waiting..."

Gonzo pushed past Rosie, rushing up. "Camilla! Sweetie! Your hero will save you!" he yelled – but as he leaped onto a narrow landing of stone and concrete, a distant boom echoed through the underground, and the walls trembled. Gonzo paused, confused, as did all of the monsters. A low cracking, splitting noise approached them. All of them stared, dumbfounded, at a slit of a crack splitting the landing, traveling from out of a dark brick tunnel leading away from the landing. Gonzo blinked, intrigued. "Hey, that sounded like Golden Age nitroglycerin!" He turned to Thatch familiarly. "You can always tell. The sweat on the old stuff makes a slightly lower boom-and-crack sound. C-four, now, ha ha ha! _That_ gives you a really neat explosion, with multiple dust-throwing angles, but really, come to think of it, I'm not sure which would be better for this act I've been considering. See, it starts with a full orchestra and a bras band all playing 'In the Hall of the Mountain King,' but in slightly different time signatures, so you get sort of this staggered sound effect! And then—"

"Go see what the heck that was!" the scaly thing ordered, shoving Lunchy toward the side passage.

Luncheon Counter Monster sniffed the dust deeply. "Oooohhh...cement powder!" he exclaimed happily, and took off at a fast waddle.

Rosie, seeing a chance for them to break past the slower scaly thing, grabbed Gonzo by the waist and tossed him up the next flight of steps. He beckoned to Thatch. "Comma abba! Rugga!" Thatch needed no further encouragement, though he panted and held his kidneys as they pounded up the stairs. It had been a rough night already.

They popped up behind a once-stately and now chokingly dusty formal staircase. Gonzo looked around as Rosie was trying to drag him toward the front door. "Hey, the hotel again! Cool! D'you think Camilla would want to pose atop the water-tower cupola when I start the demolition process? I think watching this place come down floor by floor as the music reaches that amazing crescendo –"

"Gazza, rugga!" Rosie scolded, pushing his friend across the lobby.

An olive-felted Whatnot in a slim-line suit put up a hand and the escape skidded to a halt. "Wait, wait, you can't leave the contest without surrendering your tracking doohickeys! Come on now...it's only fair if everyone plays by the same rules."

Gonzo looked from the dark green hair to the shiny shoes. "Uh...sorry, what?"

The young lawyer sighed, holding out his hand. "You know, the stuff that scientist fellow assigned you at the beginning. Our sponsors paid good money for all the equipment, and it's my job to ensure everything runs according to the rules, to uphold the good name of Bland and Blander."

Rosie tugged at an immovable Gonzo frantically, seeing Big Timmy the gilled green hulk lumbering across the floor after them. They could outrun him easily, if Gonzo would only _move!_ "Tagga, hebba! Gazza, gabba _goh!"_

"Just a sec, Rosie," Gonzo said; the panicked monster began tearing out the rest of his hairfeathers, staring back at the relentlessly slow, gaping creature taking another flatfooted step toward them...another... Thatch inserted himself between his brother and the approaching doom-on-flippers, trying to strike up an impromptu argument about how poorly the Monster United team had performed in the International Ugby Tournament last month.

Gonzo heard screams and eerie moans drifting from other rooms, other floors of the hotel. "Hey, is this the charity thing?"

Miles Blandish rolled his eyes tiredly. "Are you 'pro Muppets' all so _clueless?_ Honestly, I don't see why _you_ guys get the sweet marketing deal and we tireless civil servants toil away unnoticed... _I_ could be on a lunchbox, don't you think?" He struck a lawyerly pose, one hand on his chest, one finger of the other hand upraised as if to make a point before a jury.

Gonzo stared at him. "Uh...if you can do that in a cape, sure. Look, I just need to know, is Camilla the Chicken here tonight?"

"Er..." Blandish consulted the Official Clipboard. "Why, so she is. I suppose that must have been the poultry I saw earlier. Funny...she seemed _less_ chicken than that hog guy..."

Timmy advanced, slowly lifting heavy arms. Thatch backed away before him, still gabbling about penalty shots and vuvuzelas. Rosie tugged at Gonzo's arm again, desperate enough to try hefting him bodily through the door, although after his earlier run for the gold he was feeling weak and dizzy. _Should've had another energy drink with all those fried worms..._

Gonzo heard a chilling laugh from somewhere above, followed by the unmistakable sound of Beauregard challenging it to a battle of wits: "Oh _yeah?_ Well you can say that to my face, mister! ...Uh... Well I didn't mean _right_ in my face...gee, you really should use those white-strips; your fangs look a little reddish..." And then a loud clucking made every curly hair on Gonzo's body stand on end.

 _"Camilla!"_ he shouted, scrambling around a startled Rosie and completely ignoring the slow swipe of webbed claws from Timmy. The daredevil leapt up the hole-ridden wooden stairs with a joyous heart. "I'm comin' babyyyy!" he howled, and in a second had vanished.

Rosie looked, frightened, at Thatch. Thatch looked at Timmy. Timmy realized his target was gone, and turned to a slowly-reacting Blandish instead. Thatch headed for the door. "Eggazzoh!" he cried, but his brother hesitated. Thatch gestured impatiently, eager to leave the dullard lawyer to his fate as he attempted to lecture the encroaching monster from the green lagoon about proper contest etiquette. But Rosie set his toothy jaw, shook his head, and pointed at the stairs.

"Tagga...ezz mah fendah." Thatch paused, horns drooping, and Rosie emphasized, "Magga _bebba_ fendah!"

Thatch sighed. Well, he'd always admired the kid's ability to hold true to his ideals, no matter how twisted... "Ahzzay," he grumbled, and started up the stairs after an eager Rosie. "Buh izza bezzah be gwick. Izza tebba nah!"

Rosie gave a solemn nod to show he understood the lateness of the hour. Together the brothers went after a wayward Whatever. In the lobby, Miles Blandish's loud remonstrations went largely ignored: "Hey, you can't eat me! I'm a junior partner in the most prestigious all-Muppet law firm in the world! Hey! _H—"_ He was cut off by a loud, wet gulp.

Timmy continued his purposeful waddle toward the stairs, though it seemed doubtful they'd hold his weight. The boss had specified all Muppets be brought to the ballroom; he hadn't specified _how_ they be transported...


	60. Chapter 52

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO. _In which things are inside the room; the contents of a pie are changed at the last minute; and chaos engenders happiness for once. Also, a possum._

Bunsen seemed oblivious to the sight of an enormous scaly amphibious thing gulping down a young Whatnot lawyer, but Beaker cried out in terror, eyes bulging. Bunsen swung around in his swivel chair, his shoulders slowly receding from his ears. "Beaker! _How_ many times have I said this? I can't concentrate when you're _screaming_ like that!"

The frantic carrot-topped scientist jabbed his fingers at the screen as the green thing lumbered out-of-frame. "Meeeee! Mee mo mo mo mee meemee mo mo!"

"Well, no, I don't recall us agreeing on a 'Creature from the Black Lagoon' animatronic," Bunsen said, puzzled. He turned to view the monitor showing an empty lobby. "Beaker, you're imagining things again!" He frowned at his assistant's gaping jaw. "How many of those little packets of candy corn have you had tonight? You know _one_ of them has enough sugar to send a hamster into a diabetic coma!"

Beaker, flustered, scanned through the remaining camera views. A disturbing number of them had mysteriously stopped working. Honeydew tapped one of the readouts, which seemed to have flatlined. "Now would you look at that! It would appear that somehow we've stopped transmitting over the TV station! Tsk, tsk...well, we must shoulder on until they've fixed it, I suppose. Is the online signal at least going out?"

Beaker looked at their web-TV streaming signal. "Mou mo meer," he assured Bunsen, but then worriedly flicked through all the cameras. The ones which still worked showed empty hallways and silent rooms. He quickly checked the sensor gauges; oddly, every single one of them seemed to be moving downward or toward the lobby, although even in the corridors, stairs, or rooms which should have been transmitting a live camera feed back to base, Beaker could see only gloom. He tweaked up the master sound feed for all the mics, and heard only wind...and an odd rustling. "Mee mo mee meep meep!" he exclaimed, shivering.

"Really, Beakie, it's _supposed_ to look abandoned and spooky! Now let me get back to the task of scaring the pants off those of our friends who actually wear...them..." Bunsen scratched his head, scanning through all his scare-control monitors. He took off his glasses, polished them briefly with Muppet Labs Cleanse-o-Wipes, and reset them above his right-angled nose. "That's very strange...I don't seem to be able to pinpoint exactly where our comrades in terror _are_ right this instant...do you see any of them, Beaker?"

"Mo," Beaker whispered, suddenly feeling very alone.

Bunsen scooted over, peering at the sensor-tracker. "Oh, you sillyfoam! Look, there's Kermit and Piggy and...Lew?" _Well, perhaps our little spookhouse has split up and rearranged some of the groups._ Bunsen checked the monitor for the lobby, where that bunch of Muppets registered, but saw absolutely nothing. "That can't be right! Beaker, what have you done to the location calibration? That's supposed to be GPS-specific within two-tenths of a meter!" Beaker meeped a protest, gesturing wildly at all the equipment. Puzzled, Bunsen looked at all of it, then reached for the camera joystick. "Well, perhaps the focus is simply a bit off...there...let's just...Ah! There we are! See? I _told_ you to stop fidgeting so much, you'd knock the settings out of...align...ment..."

He trailed off, staring. Beaker's hair stood up straight, and he let out a long gasp. On the monitor, the lobby camera now tilted almost straight down, two enormous pillbugs with antlers and some kind of bright green-glowing millipede crawled steadily toward the hidden office, orange sensor dots visible on their backs. Beaker let out a shriek, leaping to his feet.

"Oh heavens! Not _deerbugs!_ Oh heavens! Those things terrified me as a young boy," Bunsen confessed. When Beaker stared at him, Bunsen wrung his hands. "And they still do! Beakie! Quick! Block the door!"

Agreeing wholefeltedly, Beaker grabbed one of the server racks, straining to move it. Even with wheels under it, the wobbling tower of electronics creaked only an inch toward the door. "Ack! No, no, here, the desk!" Bunsen cried, making no move himself to help as Beaker got behind the heavy pine furniture and grunted and shoved and slowly pushed it across the crowded office to the sliding panel which separated them from the crawling horrors outside. He wedged it in such a way that the panel wouldn't open, and backed off, panting.

Bunsen checked the sensor gauge. "Oh, my dear Uncle Mellon! They're _everywhere!"_ He rapidly jockeyed one after another of the working cameras to show bugs of all species, few identifiable, wearing sensors which had been taken from the frighteningly absent Muppets. All of them seemed to be heading the scientists' way. "Beaker! _Why_ didn't you tell me this building was infested with overgrown insects!"

Before he could recall how to work his jaw to get a meep out in his own defense, Beaker heard a scratching sound at the panel door. Quivering, he backed away, suddenly realizing that millipede had some fearsome-looking jaws. Biology had never been his area of interest, but hadn't he read somewhere that ordinary millipedes traveled through roots and dirt by...by _chewing_ their way through? "Mohhhhh," he groaned, grabbing one of the servers to steady himself. It wobbled alarmingly, but then Bunsen snapped at him.

"Beaker, keep track of these things! I'm going to try to rig up an electromagnetic high-frequency drone signal to drive them off!" Now _that_ actually sounded practical. With a fierce nod and a meep, Beaker hastened back to his chair and checked the positions of every single blinking light on a wide-range scan of the fear-o-sensors. Honeydew's sausage-like fingers moved more nimbly than Beaker had ever seen before, dancing across a keyboard as he attempted to figure out a way to switch the mics set in every room and hallway to transmit rather than receive, and simultaneously calculated the exact hertz needed to repel the advancing bugs. "Let's see, if I reverse the polarity of the neutron flow _so,_ and then set all emitters to four-hundred-and-fifty-three cycles per second, that _might_ just—"

"Meeeee!" Beaker cut him off, reading aloud a group of the sensor readings. "Mee mo mo moo meep meemers!"

"You're reading it wrong," Bunsen said, irritated. "Those creepy-crawlies are _certainly_ closer than _ten meters_ on the other side of that door, Beaker!"

Beaker gestured impatiently; _no, not THOSE!_ The signal he was looking at, a large glob of several sensors grouped and moving almost as one, steadily advanced closer and closer to them from a slightly different direction. "Mate meemers!"

"Just let me get this signal working, and they'll all go away!" Bunsen said, trying to return his focus to their only salvation through science, but Beaker, in growing panic, kept reading off the sensor tracking.

"Mebben meemers! Meex meemers!"

"Not helping!" Bunsen complained.

"Mibe meemers!...Mour meemers!"

"If I can just...ah! There! Got the mics all responding! Now to transmit the high-pitched frequency which should jam all their ucky little antennae worse than the JFK on a holiday weekend..."

"Moo meemers!" Beaker cried. Bunsen, about to turn the knobs all to eleven and overwhelm all the buggy senses outside, paused, confused.

"Two meters?" he repeated. "That can't be right!"

"Moo meemers... _moon meemer..."_ Beaker gasped, as the blinking dots all converged on the center of the scanner.

Bunsen protested, "But – that's _inside the room!"_

Nothing stirred around them. The same thought hitting the scientists as one, both of them slowly turned their eyes upward.

The slavering, twitching horde of enormous, many-legged things and slimy slugs spread out from the old chimney flue on the ceiling. There was a space of a single second when they all just stared at each other...and then the bugs dropped, filling the tiny office with Muppety screams...and the powerful crash of the server rack tower falling over.

"Well well what have we here?"

Snookie froze. Constanza jerked her head back to see a grinning, furry horned monster striding confidently toward them. He grabbed a novelty apron from a stagefrackle, dropping the neck of it over his own thick throat without missing a beat. Carl chuckled. "Looks like our pie filling was trying to walk out the back door! All right, you two, fun's over...for _you!"_ The audience roared with laughter, watching all this on the screen over the show's set while Carl wrangled the two hapless Muppets behind the scenes. "I never cared much for four-and-twenty blackbirds; they're so bony...but you two have _lots_ of chewy foam to nosh on!"

Snookie wasn't planning on resisting, conditioned from years of such abuse...but then he looked at the blue-felted, pink-splotched girl struggling like a wildcat in Carl's other hand, and something deep within him snapped. He pulled back a foot and kicked Carl in the stomach as hard as he could, making the startled monster drop him. Instead of running, Snookie raised trembling yellow fists. "Put her down, you drooling deviant!" he barked, sounding more aggressive than he felt.

Carl blinked huge round eyes at him. "Seriously?"

"Y-yes! You let her go right this instant or I'll...I'll..."

Five stagefrackles tackled him. Carl tittered. "You'll wind up back in the pie anyway. C'mon blueberry, time to join your loverboy!" He hauled Constanza toward the massive pie crust, ignoring her attempts to swing herself free; when she tried to bite his fingers, he swatted her nearly unconscious. "Stop that! Well folks, hope you like your pumpkin pie with a little _bite_ to it, heh heh!" He grinned, tossing the floppy Whatnot into the pie alongside a still-struggling Snookie Blyer. "Here's the spice ta go with you, sugar!" he crooned, and grinned at the sound of his audience howling with mirth.

"Carl, I am begging you, don't do this," Snookie wheezed, trying to breathe around the rain of cinnamon the monster was now grating fresh over the restrained Muppets. "At least – at least let _her_ go! You said you weren't going to eat your _sous-chef!_ " Carl simply grinned wider, moving on to a nutmeg the size of a football and using his No.-thirty-seven heavy-duty grater from Grillems-Groanmoana.

"Sorry Snookums...but I hear our boss is very fond of pumpkin Muppet pie, and you know me, always the brown-noser!" Carl chortled. He paused to rub his enormous schnozz. "Well, pink-noser, anyway, but you get the idea!" He gestured to the Frackles, and four of them, straining, trundled over a huge cauldron of raw mashed pumpkins, rinds chunked into the mix. "Now for the actual vegetable part...Ya know, I'm a Muppavore at heart, but Mom always did say to eat my veggies. When you cook 'em like this, that's too tasty to say no, isn't it?" he appealed, and the audience let out whoops and catcalls and suggestions for honey instead of brown sugar.

Constanza choked and spat, and weakly raised a hand to block the ton of smashed pumpkin glopping onto her. Angrily, Snookie tried to fight free of the monsters holding him down in the crust, only to wind up pulling one of them in under the filling while weighed down too much to move himself. Carl giggled. "Whoopsie! Eh, well, I don't guess a little extra fur will ruin the taste that much!" The audience laughed, and Carl grabbed the top crust like a thick blanket and pulled it over the protesting pie filling. "Sweet dreams, guys! Hope they're extra good, 'cause they'll be the last ones you ever have! Next up, the oven, and after that... Oh, I'm sorry, did I say this was a pumpkin pie? I should've said... _mincemeat!"_

He pointed happily at the ceiling. Through a vent in the crust, Snookie could just make out some sort of contraption lowering from the ceiling. It had numerous wicked blades, and on cue, they whirred into life, snicking and snarking around one another so closely that it was clear nothing which came under them would remain in one piece for long...or twenty pieces, for that matter. Snookie tried to scream, but the pumpkin rind stuffed in his mouth only allowed a gurgle. Carl grinned at the backstage camera. "Now back to the fun upstairs, but stay tuned, folks! You won't wanna miss _this_ tasting kitchen!"

 _No, no, frog no, get me out, get me OUT,_ Snookie cried in his head, struggling uselessly. Beside him in the dark pie, he could hear and feel Constanza's fight for life as she too slowly submerged further in the goopy, sticky pumpkin innards. He gasped, gulped, wished the girl dying with him to have a happy afterlife as he was pretty sure they weren't going to wind up in the same place – and then the dough lifted from his face, and he took a deep, groaning breath. He blinked up at a grim-faced gray-green monster.

"You still alive?" Carl muttered.

Snookie glared at him, unable to remove the stringy goop from his right eyelid. "Sorry to disappoint," he snapped. He heard Constanza choking, and turned to her, but couldn't raise his arms out of the muck. "Constanza!" he said, heard her gurbled response, and frantically tried to reach her.

Carl plunged both paws into the pie and lifted the girl from the sucking sweetness. He whacked her once between the shoulderblades, and she coughed up a stem, and then took a long breath of real air. Relieved, Snookie subsisted, sinking again, his nose and eyes barely above the filling, cinnamon making his eyes water. _At least she'll stay alive. Maybe she'll think well of me...maybe that'll make some kind of difference when I get to wherever I'm going..._ To his shock, Carl dropped Constanza on the floor outside the crust and grabbed him, hefting him with a grunt out of the sticky goop. When Snookie hit the floor, he gaped at the monster, dumbfounded further by what Carl did next. Two stagefrackles had been watching all this in confusion; Carl grabbed one each in his broad paws and stuffed them under the filling so fast they never had a chance to squeak a protest. He turned to the remaining Frackles standing nearest the pie. Their eyes widened, and they skittered backward, but with a sudden lunge Carl snatched them up and stuffed them in the pie as well. He stood a moment, looking from the startled Muppets to the squirming pie goop, squinting one eye shut as he judged relative mass.

"H-hey, what are you doing?" gulped the goblin who was serving as stage left assistant manager. "You can't do that! It was supposed to be a Muppet pie!" He made the mistake of stepping closer.

Carl stuffed him down his throat faster than a cute little puppy, and whirled, looking for any other witnesses. The camerafrackle had abandoned his post backstage to watch around the corner, where the big screen over the late-night talk show set showed a round-headed bald Muppet and a skinny screaming one being pinched, bitten, trussed up and dragged up the walls by a horde of mutant bugs. The Frackle laughed along with the audience. Carl nodded, turning back to Snookie and Constanza. "Simplistic morons. Okay, listen hard, you two, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once: run."

Snookie stared at him. A piece of pumpkin slid down his round nose and glopped on his shoe. Constanza froze only a second, then grabbed Snookie's hand. "Move it!"

"But...but..." Snookie looked at a scowling, anxious Carl, then at the pie where a blob of orange stuff moved; muffled noises came from under the filling.

"Are you a freaking foamhead?" Constanza hissed. "Don't make me slap you into your senses!"

Snookie looked at all of them – Carl, girl, pie – once more before shutting his mouth and taking to his heels. The two orange-coated Muppets quickly vanished through the studio's back exit. With a sigh, Carl gently smoothed the top crust down over the struggling filling, and opened the giant oven. "Hey, you! Are you being paid to _watch_ the show or _film_ it?" he snarled at the camerafrackle, who hastily took up his post once more and aimed the lens at Carl. With a grin more cheerful than the monster felt right now, he shoved the pie into the oven. "In we go! Set at four-hundred-degrees for a quick bake – that really retains more of the natural juices, ya know – and in," he checked the backstage clock, "about eighteen minutes, it's pie for everyone! Bone appetite!" Carl quipped, and slammed the oven door with a flourish. He signaled a cut to the camerafrackle, and his neck slumped.

 _Drat. I really wanted to know how he'd taste with fresh nutmeg, too...ah well. At least this way he'll be around for the eating again, someday, somewhere..._ He felt a sniffle trying to come out his thick nose, and wiped it with his apron. He walked to the edge of the set, and gazed out upon the multitudes hooting and jeering at the monsteriffic commercials now showing. _THEY won't even be able to tell the difference! And when the pie's all sliced to bitty bits, the camera won't, either..._ Carl sighed again, feeling nostalgic for the good ol' days when he could prepare Snookums boiled, Snookums fried, Snookums sautéed with raw garlic cloves, Snookums glazed with honey and whiskey...

On the overhead screen, a monster with walrus tusks and tiny pink eyes wolfed down a hamsterburger, as the announcer proclaimed it was "preferred two to one by monsters who could taste anything other than raw sewage" over gerbil Ruebens. Carl snorted.

"Philistines," he grumbled, and slung his apron aside so hard it thwapped a small goblin right off the set.

Pew couldn't see the action as well as he would've liked, but he could definitely hear everything. With the side of his head pressed against the thin three-paneled screen separating the taping equipment from the lush bedroom set of _'I Married a Monster!'_ , he quivered in excitement at the next crash which sounded.

Gustav whined plaintively, "Aw, sweetie, mushkins, you don't have to play hard-to-get anymore, the cameras are off!"

"Zat's what _zey_ sink," Pew mumbled, toothy snout all agrin. _What amazing ratings zis weel garnier when we show it on ze pay-per-view!_ he thought happily.

"For the last time," the red-furred, feline monster yowled, "You are _hideous_ and I do _not_ want to be _absorbed!"_

The blob squelched around the other side of the king-sized bed, ducking too slowly to avoid being hit by the remains of the ceramic pot which had held a decorative fake palm. Gustar blinked, and gradually began sucking the shards into his pliable, jellylike form. "But that's the only way we can be together _forever!"_ he argued. "Isn't that what true love is all about?"

 _"No!"_ Gina shouted, bounding across the bed when a psuedopod swiped at her. The blob had managed to hug her earlier, and her fur was still coated with the slimy stuff; it had taken every ounce of strength she possessed in the grip of absolute panic to free herself. Winning the bride-challenge had proved to be a very bad idea, as her claws had gone right through the blob harmlessly, and then he'd begun trying to engulf her in earnest. _Should've taken my chances with one of the creeps in the audience!_ She looked around worriedly. The door she'd been dumped through to this elaborate bedroom was locked behind her, but she hadn't explored all of the room yet. Seeing movement behind a decorative screen in one corner, she leaped for it.

Gustar shot upward, trying to intercept her. With a squeal of fright, Gina wrenched herself sideways midair, managing somehow to land on her feet. She didn't get a second to catch her breath despite aching ribs; the blob rippled toward her relentlessly. She jumped atop a large entertainment center, knocking off some brass knickknacks. The blob winced when they pounded what should have been his head, but then she saw the objects sinking slowly into him, tiny bubbles forming around the metal as the acidic interior of the monster began dissolving them. She shuddered. "Look, go find some other blob to make you happy! I don't want to meld with you!"

Gustar seemed unhappy. "But I already did that," he moped, surging against the shelves like a tide of Jell-o, unable to climb. "I already _am_ all the other blobs!"

"Oh god," Gina gulped. She looked around again, desperate for some escape route, and this time saw that skanky host crouched behind the panels, listening in. Her pupils narrowed, and she aimed her next jump for him. Pew screeched when she caught him squarely atop his hunched back.

"You!" Gina hissed, claws bared an inch from the monster's nose. "Get me out of here!"

Pew recovered immediately, his smelly arms going around her middle. "Hah _hah!_ Ah _knew_ zhou would not be able to resist mah charms!"

Gustar knocked over the paneled screen, dismayed at seeing the show host hugging his prize. "Awww, hey, no fair! Pew, you said _I_ won her! Go get your own Susan!"

Pew chuckled; Gina moved to swing the idiot between herself and Gustar. "Ah, _mon frere,_ what can ah say? Ah have always had a soft spot for ze lovely leetle kittehs!" He leered at her. "And a _not_ -zo-soft spot, heh heh heh..."

"Ugh!" Gina braced her feet and shoved hard. Pew, surprised, careened into Gustar. Blob and blind monster flailed angrily at one another, and it was hard to tell which of them looked more ridiculous, with ragged limbs sticking pell-mell out of a wobbling round gelatin. "Go to ****, both of you!" She bolted for the door she spotted at the back of the room, pausing only a second when she saw monitors and mixing boards tracking all the action in the wrecked bedroom. _He was FILMING this? Ugh, ugh, ugh!_ Disgusted, she looked back once. Pew had managed to find his cane and was attempting to whack Gustar over the head with it; although Gustar frowned and tried to suck Pew inside him farther, the cane kept hitting the brass knickknacks and bouncing off them back out of the blob. _Disgusting freaks!_ But as her hand closed over the doorknob, she shuddered. Reddish fur still covered her head to toe, and the image the mirror in the bedroom had shown her minutes ago had been nothing short of horrible. _Have to get out of here, find that creepy doctor, demand an antidote!_ No way could she allow her Newsie to ever know what had happened here; better if she could work out a solution on her own, and escape this awful dungeon complex, and only then— She yanked open the door.

A baffled-looking, tall-headed Muppet in the scraps of a lab coat stood on the other side...and right beside him, in a silly green coverall, stood the short, yellow-felted love of her life.

Gina slammed the door.

She stood still, panting, panicked. Behind her, Gustar was gaining the upper...appendage...against Pew, and surging forward like a wave of processed offal in a compost factory. The ragged monster cursed and thwacked randomly with his cane, but was dragged slowly along as the blob headed for Gina, triumph in his gooey eyes. Gina took a deep breath, put one hand up to shield her face, and opened the door again.

"Excuse me, I thought this was—" Van Neuter began timidly.

"'Scuse me," Gina mumbled, trying to shoulder past him. A hand caught her wrist. She turned swiftly, about to claw the doctor out of reflex, her mind in too much anguish to think about anything but escape from the whole terrible situation, but the hand didn't belong to the vet. Soft-scratchy yellow felt rubbed against her fuzzy wrist. Gina choked up, unable to meet the searching gaze behind hornrimmed specs.

"There you go," Van Neuter said amiably. "That's her. Well! Mission accomplished! I'll just be on my—erk!"

"Stay put," Newsie growled at him. The reporter stared at Gina; humiliated, she looked away, out of breath, feeling angry tears trying to start. His gruff voice turned hesitant: "Gina...? Is that...is that really..."

"I couldn't stop it," she groaned. "Newsie, I tried! They...they did something to me...I couldn't stop them...I tried..." She heaved a breath, fighting not to burst into furious sobs. Helplessness and fury at what had been done to her overwhelmed her; shame competed with a burning outrage. "You shouldn't be here!"

Baffled, alarmed, he looked her up and down. "Wha...I...oh, _Gina..."_

She felt his hands gently take hers, and curled her fingers inward, hating the claws, the whole hideous change. _How can he even look at me now? He HATES monsters, and I'm...I'm...oh, god, this is so wrong!_ She did start crying then, turning her head away.

"Oh, Gina," Newsie whispered, horrified. "What have they done to you?"

Van Neuter heard a low rumble underfoot. Nervously he glanced into the studio, where a strange mix of blob and monster seemed to be heading for the corridor, legs kicking and a pirate hat bobbing atop a roiling mass of jelly. "How strange," the vet mused aloud. "I wonder if he _can_ actually digest something that stinky?" Deciding perhaps it would be best to wait until the meal had been absorbed and the blob felt too full to consider him as a second course, Van Neuter shut the door and turned the bolt on the outside.

Suddenly sharp claws appeared under his chin, grazing his skinny throat, and a sharp pain in his still-trapped hand made him realize the nerves there had not, in fact, gone completely dead yet. "Yowch! Hey, what's the big—"

"Fix this!" the red-furred feline thing snarled.

"This is _your_ fault!" the Newsman yelled.

Van Neuter looked from a pair of narrowed gray, catlike eyes to a scowl so deep the eyes were almost hidden behind thick glasses, and backed away slowly. "Oh, uh, well, heh heh, what...what seems to be the issue? Does she need a bath?"

"Don't look, sweetie," the cat-thing growled. "This is going to get bloody."

 _"Not_ until he fixes you," Newsie corrected, wedging his shorter body between Van Neuter and his girl.

The vet offered a hesitant smile. "Oh! Well, sure! I wouldn't have thought you'd _want_ that, she being your girlfriend and all, but certainly I can perform a—"

"Bloody," Gina snarled, her claws piercing the vet's felt around his bobbing Henson's apple. _"Very_ bloody."

Another rumble sounded, and this time Van Neuter felt the ground of the tunnel tremble. Newsie said, worried, "Your necklace!"

Gina growled low, shaking her head. "They took it off. Idiots."

"Turn her back the way she was!" Newsie ordered Van Neuter, poking his mousetrap-enclosed fingers, making the vet yelp. "And fast, or you're going to be dealing with more chaos than even you can handle!"

"Why does everyone assume I _enjoy_ chaos?" Van Neuter complained. "Just because I thought Jeff Goldblum looked rather smart in black leather pants, that doesn't mean I—"

With a crunch, a chunk of the rock ceiling fell on the vet's head. His eyes rolled up, his legs crumpled down, and the Muppet became a limp pile of lab-coated foam on the rough floor.

Gina grimaced. "D—it! Now what?" She saw her Newsman gazing unhappily at her, and winced. "Newsie...I'm sorry... You...you should just get out of here! The whole place is probably going to come down now...our energies are combining dangerously again, without the necklace holding it back; and I'm a freak, and I can't even bear for you to _look_ at me like this, and...and..." She gulped. "Just go! You shouldn't even be down here, it's not safe! Just get out while you can!"

But his arms wrapped around her; startled, she froze. "I _love_ you," he said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. "You're...you're my girl, no matter what! I came down here to rescue you, and that's what I'm going to do!"

Gina shook her head, unable to stop the tears flowing now. She wanted so badly to hug him back, but with her arms all fuzzy...the claws...no, _no!_ She choked out, "I can't...can't be with you like this. I just can't. I'm hideous! And if this creep can't fix it, I...I... Just _go,_ my love!" Another threatening shudder from the floor made them both grab one another for balance, but she tried to push him away when it passed. "Just go!"

To her shock, her Newsman stood on tiptoe, took her cheeks in his hands, and pulled her into a deep kiss. Groaning, Gina sank to her knees, aching for his touch more than she was repulsed by how she now felt. "Oh Newsie," she sighed, her eyes closed, both relieved and dismayed at the feel of his soft fingers stroking the tears from her cheeks. "What are we going to do?"

The Newsman gazed at his beloved, hating her grief, wanting more than anything to be able to make everything better. So many times she'd been there for _him,_ comforting him, strengthening his will and his confidence – why now, when she needed him, was he so _powerless?_ _If only I'd gone into chemistry, or become a doctor, or...or..._ He grabbed her shoulders tight, startled, when a louder quake swept through the corridor. Gina pressed her face against his shoulder, too ashamed to look at him. He clasped her to him, his own anguish as great, feeling like a horrible failure for not having the skills to...to...

Newsie looked up at the quivering ceiling. Even the glow-worms were trying to crawl away from the epicenter of what seemed like a nasty fault zone. _Energy! Yes!_ He forced himself to organize his thoughts, wondering if he needed an actual news feed to pull it off properly. He unlocked the studio door and swung it open. The blobby thing he'd glimpsed earlier was nowhere in sight; apparently the quake now constantly shaking the whole corridor had driven it to seek safer quarters. Newsie took Gina's hand in his, tugging her up and after him. "Come on! In here!" he barked; confused as much by the authoritative tone in her Muppet's voice as by his intent, she stumbled along with him. Newsie spotted what he'd been hoping for, grabbed one of the mics sticking out of a potted plant in the bedroom set, and turned to face a wall camera with a steady power indicator showing it was recording. He took a deep breath, mustered as much steadiness as he could manage in his voice, and began the most important story of his life.

"Here is a Muppet News Flash! All around the MMN broadcasting complex, unstable geological and biochemical conditions have caused an irreversible _change_ in some of the female monsters!" He glanced at a surprised Gina, holding onto the wall by the door as the whole room shook dangerously, dust and small pebbles sifting from the ceiling. "All of the ladies who had taken part on the recent monster _'Bachelor'_ ripoff –"

 _"I Married a Monster,"_ Gina supplied, hope firing in those pretty eyes.

Newsie nodded, gruffly repeating the odious title. "—Have _all_ experienced an unexpected transformation _back_ to the species they previously were! This reversion naturally makes them all completely _unsuitable_ for any show on MMN, and all will be returning to the surface and to whatever home they left!" Realizing she might suddenly disappear, he hastily added, "Except for Gina Broucek, who was last seen once again a natural woman and in the company of her partner, the Muppet Newsman. Stay tuned for more on this breaking Halloween story of unusual transformations!"

With a fearsome crumbling sound, the ceiling gave way, rock and dirt spewing over the bedroom set. Newsie covered his head with one hand and ran for it, linking his arm through Gina's as he went. They ran until the shaking stopped, and finally halted, out of breath and leaning against one another. Newsie tried to squint up at his beloved, but couldn't make out her features in the near-darkness of the collapsed hallway. He found his flashlight, and with a trembling hand slowly lifted the light to her face.

She was heaving for breath, coughing at the dust swirling thickly in the close air, and her hair was mussed and tangled falling over her shoulders. Dust coated her skin and the skimpy, frilly babydoll dress she still wore, but the light picked up some of the freckles over her cheeks and nose, and her eyes didn't slit closed when she winced and put up a slender-fingered hand to block the beam. With a choked cry of relief, Newsie flung his arms around her.

"Agh! Newsie...? Are you..." Gina paused, noticing her hands. She stared at them, then grabbed the flashlight from him and shone it up and down her body, from bare toes to barely-concealed cleavage. "Oh _Newsie!"_ she gasped, hugging him tight, lifting his feet from the floor to kiss him. "Oh my love – my sweetie – you did it! You did it! I love you so _much!"_

He kissed back fervently, his vision blurred, not caring. He could _feel_ her soft, smooth skin just fine. Eventually, panting, both slumped against the wall, holding one another tight. "We...we should get out of here," Newsie suggested.

Gina agreed, and released him enough for him to pull off his glasses and find a relatively clean section of her skirt to wipe them free of dust and tear-streaks. "Just a sec," she said breathlessly, "I want to check something."

Puzzled, he followed her, keeping hold of her hand, as she returned to the cave-in and rolled aside a few small stones with her feet. "Did you lose something?" Newsie asked.

"Just a thought..." Gina uncovered a pale felt hand. "Aha. Help me dig him out."

Newsie was deeply tempted to just leave the vet buried under a half-ton of rock, but realized the Muppety thing to do would be to turn him over to the proper authorities, and reluctantly knelt to assist his love in freeing the unconscious Van Neuter. However, what he found when they dragged him loose was enough to make him forget how to speak. "He...wha...huh?"

Gina grinned. "It _did_ work both ways!" She turned that wicked gleam of a gray eye to Newsie. "I wished for him to experience what _I've_ been going through."

"Oh." That seemed perfectly fair. However, the vet didn't look so much like a monster as... Newsie peered at him from a few different angles. "Is that a raccoon?"

"No...I think that's a 'possum," Gina replied.

Van Neuter groaned, slowly sitting up. "Oooh my aching noggin! What happened?"

Remembering the term Dr Honeydew had used, Newsie replied, and Gina chimed in: "A manifestational psychokinetic transformative energy event!"

The vet blinked tiny black eyes at them, his small pointed ears perked and whiskers twitching. "A what? Oh don't be ridiculous, there's no such thing!" He levered himself to unsteady feet, dusting off his rags feebly as though they were still legitimate clothing. "Fine, you've got your girl back, and—" He stopped, staring at Gina. "Oh dear. She's reversed! This is terrible! Wait, just let me get my serum recalculated and I'll..." He trailed off, staring at his hands. Grayish fur now coated the backs of them, and slowly he lifted them to his face, then patted his cheeks. "Oh no. Oh no! What have you done to me!"

"But...why an opossum?" Newsie wondered.

"An opossum! _Where?_ I _hate_ those filthy creatures!" Van Neuter cried, whirling to look around.

"Oh," Newsie murmured, nodding.

"I thought he hated _rats,"_ Gina said, frowning.

"No, I have learned to love my little rodent friends! But an opossum is a _filthy,_ thieving, _germ-carrying_ little marsupial! Oh! Oh! What have you _done_ to me!" Van Neuter moaned, his hands slapping his face all over and then jerking away as he felt the thick fur and shrunken state of his formerly tall and wobbly head. "I can't live like this! Oh this is _hideous! Aaaaaaaaaggghhh!"_ Shrieking, he bowled past them, running wildly down the open end of the hall, smacking into the walls in his fright as his new tail tried to curl around his legs.

Newsie looked up at Gina again. She had a dark, deeply satisfied smile on her face. He hugged her, and she turned those soft gray eyes on him, and stroked his hair gently. Newsie sighed, his whole face upturned in a wide smile. "Okay," she murmured, and kissed the top of his head, heedless of the dust in his hair. _"Now_ we can go."

Newsie sobered, turning his eyes to the ceiling. Somewhere above, his friends were still in danger...who knows what awful things they might be suffering, this very second? He swallowed hard. "Gina...we have to stop this. All of it. The monsters are going to..."

"Yeah. Doorway to heck and the big boss becoming the monster to end all monsters, I heard," she replied, turning serious as well. She gazed tenderly at him. "I love you, my Aloysius."

"And I love you," he gulped. "T-together?"

She smiled. "Together."

Arm in arm, they headed for whatever exit they could find which led _up._


	61. Chapter 53-1

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE (part one). _In which Gonzo is reunited with Camilla, but their situation has not improved; Snookie grows a spine; and the Ascension begins._

Even from across the cobweb-filled ballroom, Gonzo spotted her gorgeous feathers, her ruby wattles, her sapphire eyes, and with a howl of _"Camillaaaaa!"_ charged toward her. Startled monsters jumped out of the Whatever's way as he barreled straight to his chickie-love. Camilla perked up, and when he threw his arms around her neck, she clucked in relief and wonder and nuzzled his fuzzy nose with her beak. "Ohhh, Camilla, Camilla, can you ever forgive me?" Gonzo cried, filled with shame at how blind he'd been for so long. "I never meant to push you aside! Don't you know, all these life-risking things I do, I do for _you?"_

The chicken scolded him gently; didn't he realize he didn't need to impress her? "Bawwwwk, bawk buh bawk," she murmured, telling him she'd adored him even when he was a humble plumber and covered in septic back-up half the time. They kissed, and sighed, and their eyes closed in mutual affection and momentary bliss.

Gonzo's smile faded as he realized something odd. "Uh...sweetie...when did you get so tall?"

On opening his eyes, he saw Camilla had not, in fact, grown a foot taller; she was suspended in some kind of thick, sticky webbing that far off the dusty floor. To her left, Scooter and Sara hung glumly, hopelessly entangled and not in a gushy-love-song kind of way; to Camilla's right, Zoot dozed with his hat over his eyes, but the rest of the Mayhem alongside him were awake and unhappy about their cobwebbed status, which Dr Teeth had observed a short while ago was "even worse than being mothballed!" Gonzo's eyes widened as his gaze swept over an entire wall and corner filled with muffled, tired Muppets swathed in gooey silk. "This isn't good," he muttered, slowly turning around to take in the rest of the ballroom.

A few of the monsters recognizable from the Muppet Theatre, such as Big Mama and Behemoth, stood in a spread-out group across the room as if waiting for the music to begin and the dancers to choose their partners, but Gonzo suspected this would be no lindy-hop. Many, many more monsters filled the space, none of them looking particularly sympathetic to the Muppets' plight. On a raised dais where a century ago a full-tux band would have played, a stout figure wrapped in tattered strips of cloth like a mummy began to chuckle, low and menacingly. He spread his hands and pulled an old-fashioned bandleader's microphone toward him; his deep, chill voice echoed through the room over the PA system. "How lovely of you to finally join us, Gonzo...just in time for the biggest stunt of your life. A pity it will also be the last."

Rosie and Thatch McGurk halted just inside the doorway, realizing too late just how outnumbered this Charge of the Three-eyed Brigade was. The Underlord's chuckle turned to a laugh, then a booming, maniacal roar of dark triumph. As one, every monster gathered in front of him took up the expression, and squeaky titters, snarling chortles, and huge bouncing belly laughs overwhelmed even the Underlord's magnified mirth.

Gonzo gave Camilla an apologetic, halfhearted grin. "...Oops..."

Walter struggled Muppetfully but was only able to twist himself around far enough to see the Muppet next to him, which happened to be Kermit. "Uh, hey, Kermit," the newest member of the troupe said, "I don't want to sound like I'm complaining, really...but this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to be included in everything you guys did from now on."

"It isn't my idea of a great show either," the frog snapped. He tried to rock his whole body back and forth; the section of web he was snared in did have a little give to it, and with supreme effort he was able to swing himself close enough to Piggy to grab her hand. She clutched tightly, her big blue eyes moist at seeing her husband rendered so utterly helpless by a bug he normally would have simply put on buttered toast and grilled. Then again, those sorts of spiders generally weren't as _big._ "Piggy, honey? You okay?"

"I'm fine, Kermie...though this dress never will be again," she growled back. "Are _vous_ all right?"

"I've had better nights," he grumbled, irritation masking his deeper anxiety. Whatever this was, it didn't seem to be a dress rehearsal. "Robin?"

A tiny voice came from somewhere above and behind him in the web. "I'm okay, Uncle Kermit...but...why are all the monsters looking at us like we're...we're..."

"Just hang on," Kermit told him, cutting off the awful thought. "We'll figure something out. Some of these guys work for us! Scooter! Can you think of any reason why Shakey, Boppity, or Beautiful Day would be involved in this?" he asked, seeing those individuals as well as several other Muppet Show irregulars standing in the crowd around the dance-hall dais.

His right-hand Muppet replied, "Well, uh...you _did_ naysay that free-donut fund last month, boss..."

Kermit scrunched his face unhappily. "Because they would have eaten us out of theatre and home!"

Scooter gulped. "I think that may _be_ the case here, Chief..."

Link Hogthrob snuffled quietly, tears soaking the webbing around his snout. "I d-don't _want_ to be a baconator!"

Julius Strangepork sighed, hanging upside-down a foot away. "Don't vurry, Link. You're too fat to be bacon!"

"Aw, thanks, Dr Strangepork, that really makes me feel...hey!" Link tried to check the fit of his girdle, but his arms were tied to his sides.

"You'll probably be sausage inshtead," the smaller pig moped.

The Swedish Chef protested loudly as a trio of Frackles played with his cleaver on the floor below him. "Heeyy...giffen dut book! Id un surrious tool en der keechun!" A pink-maned, vulturelike Frackle giggled as he mocked the Chef, scrunching his furry eyebrows low and waving the heavy knife over his head. The others laughed, hopping from foot to foot in their excitement; one of them came too close to the flailing cleaver, and suddenly a long beak went flying. The Frackles stared at that, then at one another, then cackled madly while the noseless one chased down his bouncing beak.

Miss Piggy thought of all the action-heroine roles she'd played, from her Evel Knievel motorcycle jump in "The Great Muppet Caper" all the way to her last butt-kicking, no-prisoner-taking character in "Fozzie's Angels." "Those girls get out of this kind of thing all the time," she muttered under her breath. "How hard can it be?" With a grunt, she renewed her struggles in earnest, though the webbing seemed more like airline cable than any silk she'd ever had a slinky gown made from.

Kermit shook his head, holding tight to his wife's gloved hand, sickened by the sight of her fighting so valiantly and remaining firmly ensnared anyway. "I guess the Newsman was right," he said sadly. "I didn't want to believe it...these guys have worked with us for years! Why would they do this?"

Scooter stared across the room at the shrouded figure stroking an enormous white-furred caterpillar. "I guess they're all too afraid of _him."_ Every monster present was clearly deferring to the mysterious individual, slinking low when they moved near the edge of the dais and casting anxious, if curious, looks his way.

A snaggle-toothed, portly, green Frackle with dark hair stopped right below Scooter, making notes on a clipboard. "Twenty-four, twenty-five...uh...say...you _are_ a Muppet, right?" he asked Sara.

She glared back, fists clenched with no way to even swing them. "You bet I am, buster!"

Realizing this might be a chance to spare at least _one_ of their number from an unknown and probably awful fate, Scooter objected, "Sara, no!" He addressed the puzzled Frackle, "J G, this is my wife! She's not one of the performers!"

J G blinked at them. "Uh...okay...so...is she a Muppet or not? I mean, technically, the term 'Muppet' sort of applies to _anyone_ connected to the theatre, doesn't it, whether they're onstage or not, right? I mean, _you_ don't usually perform!"

"Well, I, er, sometimes –"

"'Cause I know there's the more generic term 'Whatnot,' of course," the chatty Frackle continued, ignoring Scooter's interruption. "And I've heard of 'Anything Muppets,' ha ha, hey, that's like the song, sort of, isn't it? 'But now _anything Muppets!'"_ he sang. Scooter and Sara stared at him. "So, uh, I guess the question here ultimately is, is your wife a Muppet or not? I mean, pretty much the only other category around here is 'monster,' and even though she has kind of a cute nose, I don't think that really warrants inclusion in the...snooorrrkkk..."

The Frackle's head rocked back on his thick shoulders, and loud snoring came from his open mouth. Suddenly the slap of a sharp, thin tail across his bottom made him jump. "What is the count, you worthlessss cretin?" demanded a doglike reptilian creature.

J G wiped a bit of drool from his lip, embarrassed. "Oh! Uh, heh heh, hi there, your flunkiness! Uh, just wrapping it up here; so with the two Carl's serving up as pie, and that crazy veterinarian guy, we have twenty-f—"

"No, you imbesssile!" Eustace snarled. "Van Neuter is only to be usssed assss backup in cassse ssssomeone isss misssing!" He cocked a wary eye up at a defiant Sara. "Who issss thiss? Ssshe doesssn't look very Muppety to me."

"She's not," Scooter yelled.

"Yes I am!" Sara yelled, unwilling to be separated from her beloved, no matter what the consequences here. She exchanged a frustrated look with Scooter.

J G tapped the doglizard hesitantly on the arm. "Uh, I think she's a, um, a Whatnot. That still counts, right?"

"Yesssss..." Eustace muttered, still uncertain about the girl with the too-smooth felt. "Sssshe ssseemss a bit...tall..."

"Oh! Well, uh, some of them are; I mean heck, that Van Neutral guy is like head and shoulders over most of us, heh heh, well not _figuratively_ of course, I mean, you know, _you're_ the boss's right-hand monster and all so _obviously_ he wouldn't be above _you,_ that's sort of just a figure of...skkkkaaarrrrkkk..."

Disgusted with the narcoleptic Frackle, Eustace raised a taloned paw to knock some sense into the creature if such a thing was at all possible, but a sharp word from across the room stopped him cold. "Eustace. Report."

The doglizard scrambled back to the master's feet, wondering as he gazed upon the thick, well-wrapped limbs what the Underlord really looked like; if he had to appear before them so concealed even now, how truly _terrible_ must his twisted countenance be? With a shiver, Eustace said, "We are almossst at quota, your hideoussssnesss! The daredevil fool makessss thirty, and if the reporter hasss been apprehended, he ssshall make..."

A commotion from the entrance drew everyone's attention. There in the doorway stood a yellow-felted Muppet with a large straight nose, a deep scowl behind his impressive glasses, and a knapsack upraised in his arms; beside him, with her hand protectively on his shoulder, stood a tall young woman with dirt-spattered dark red hair and a fierce gleam in her eyes. Several monsters took a minute to even notice the knapsack, preoccupied with the amount of leg the frilly dress on the girl revealed. Eustace grinned. "Thirty-one, my liege!"

The Newsman saw he had their attention, and shouted, "All of you stop right there! In this bag, I have several sticks of nitroglycerin, and they're not very stable!"

The monsters looked at one another. "Don't be absurd," rumbled the Underlord, flicking a hand at the reporter. "He's bluffing. Take him."

A few of the crowd moved toward Newsie, but he raised the bag higher. "I found the explosives in Gonzo's cell! Ask _him_ if I'm bluffing!"

All eyes turned to the unfettered but surrounded Great Gonzo. He blinked slowly. "Oh, um, yeah...I did, um, sort of _appropriate_ some old blasting stuff I found in one of the tunnels..." Hundreds of worried eyes stared at him. Defensively, Gonzo added, "Well, it wasn't like anyone _else_ was gonna use it to completely demolish this hotel to the music of Edvard Grieg!"

"I _will!"_ Newsie barked out, his voice rough, his legs trembling. "So all of you, cut those Muppets loose _right now_ , or you're all going to wind up as little pieces of fur!"

"He should know," Rowlf reflected. "Happened to _him_ more than once..."

Anxiously, the monsters shuffled from foot to foot, looking at one another, at the captured souls in the web, and at the Underlord. A sneer spread across that broad, bandaged face. "You fools! He wouldn't blow up his precious friends! It's a trick; grab him!"

Two of the Mutations and Timmy from the Green Lagoon lurched at the Newsman and Gina. Quickly Newsie thrust his hand into the knapsack and tossed something at the monsters; several of the others yelped and covered their faces. Beaker meeped in alarm and even Kermit cringed. Newsie watched in momentary satisfaction as the marbles he'd thrown rolled under broad furry feet, and the suddenly-slipping monsters flew to the side. One of the Mutations bowled over Boppity Frackle as he went down.

"We're not kidding," Gina called over the rumbling of a hundred or so startled monsters. "Now set them free!"

Two of the giant millipedes clicked their mandibles at the Underlord, ready to launch themselves at the threatening little Muppet, but their master held up a hand to stay them, frowning. "Oh good," Walter sighed. "So, it'll all work out fine, just like in your movies, right?" he asked Kermit.

Piggy shook her head. "Keep in mind this _is_ Newsgeek we're talking about...it might not have occurred to him that the _rest_ of us are _not_ fond of disaster falling on us!"

"He wouldn't want his girlfriend hurt," Kermit said, feeling a surge of hope. Two of the monsters approached the web, uncertainly looking up at the eager Muppets. They hesitated, checking the Underlord's expression, though it was hard to make out much beneath the loosely-wound shroud.

"It would seem we are at an impasse," the Underlord said, still showing his meaty palm at the monsters; the message clear: _hold._ "I do not have time to bargain with you, little Muppet. I'll tell you what. Leave...and you should have a few seconds' head start."

"Not without my friends!" Newsie declared. He felt Gina squeeze his shoulder, and stood up taller, his pointed nose held high. "I'll say this one more time, and only one more time: let them go, or we're _all_ going out of here in a lot of little pieces! As much as that'll hurt, it's better than allowing you to open a doorway to the forces of darkness!"

"I think our journalistically-inclined brother may be lacking some diplomatic trainage," Dr Teeth murmured low.

"Yeah, where's the hostage negotiator already?" Floyd complained.

"Hos-tage?" Animal asked, puzzled.

Struck with an idea, Rowlf urged the drummer, "Hey Animal! Remember the Mallory Gallery?"

"Mal-or-y?" Animal's brows shot up. "Ah ha ha ha! Wo-man!"

"Uh...right. Maybe later," Rowlf said. "Animal, remember how you ate through the gate bars?"

"Dude, that was just a movie set," Floyd objected, but Rowlf shook his head impatiently.

"Animal, pretend the web is cotton candy, okay?"

The drummer looked at Rowlf a moment blankly, then looked at the white, fluffy-looking strands surrounding him. He brightened, grinning. "Ahhh! Cot-ton can-dy! Ahm nom nom nom!" With a gusto that would have done Cookie Monster proud, the drummer attacked the strands with his mouth.

"Like, he's rully gonna have to brush his teeth tonight," Janice sighed.

Dr Teeth shook his head in amazement at the vigor Animal displayed, ripping and gulping mouthfuls of the sticky stuff in earnest as though it really was the fairground treat. "If this is indeed a gastronomical rescue, I'll brush them incisors shiny my own self!"

Kermit wished he had teeth. With the standoff between the Newsman and the monster boss uncertain in its outcome, chewing their way out seemed as likely a plan as anything.

"I think we can go now," Constanza hissed.

"I'm kind of liking this whole hiding-out-and-not-being-found-and-eaten thing," Snookie argued quietly. The two of them were scrunched under a low bunk bed in a barracks room. Heavy paws and skittering feet outside in the corridor seemed to have gone their way none the wiser to the fugitives, and the only sound now was a television set tuned to Carl's show, but Snookie wasn't willing to risk this newfound freedom.

"I get that, but could you stop _whimpering?_ It's really unattractive," the feisty activist girl complained. Snookie turned his gaze back to her, confused and a little offended.

 _"I'm_ not whimpering," he said.

As their eyes met, both of them heard a soft, low moan. Looking around in surprise, they saw a large monster crumpled under another bunk, shivering, paws over his eyes. Bits of orange hair littered the floor around him. "What's with him?" Constanza wondered.

"I didn't think that last musical guest was _that_ bad," Snookie said. "Granted, I really doubt the world actually _needed_ yet another parody of 'Thriller,' especially as warbled by a giant slug, but—"

"Whatever," Constanza sighed. She frowned at the TV. "Hey – what's with the Muppets in spiderweb city?"

"Yet another recast of 'Spidermonster, the Musical'?"

"Are you ever serious?"

A witty retort was right on his tongue, but then Snookie saw the genuine annoyance in that pretty blue face, and stopped. "I can be," he said softly. They gazed at one another a long moment. When Snookie leaned toward her for a kiss, she met him halfway. He smiled at her when they gently parted, and was pleased to see the brash girl actually turn purple in a blush. Suddenly he heard a voice he thought he recognized. He looked back up at the TV and froze. "Hey! That...that's my cousin! What the flying fungus is he _doing?"_

Constanza, curious, peered from under the bed. "Uh...getting himself killed?"

They both stared at the yellow Muppet threatening the shrouded figure whom Snookie assumed must be this Underlord everyone kept talking about. "Well, _that_ guy doesn't look all that impressive, unless he's really Val Kilmer and invisible under the toilet-papering."

"But those guys will gobble him up like a Cornish game Muppet," Constanza pointed out. "He's your cousin? For reals?"

"I think so," Snookie mused. "He said he was Florabeth's son. I don't really know much about her; she was sort of the black sheep of the family, married some sailor boy in a wartime romance, left the folds of the family cheese business..."

Constanza looked askance at him. "Family cheese business?"

Snookie sighed, rolling his eyes. "Wisconsin, okay? One of the many reasons why I went into show biz instead."

On the TV, the short yellow guy tossed marbles at the monsters trying to rush him, sending them sprawling. Snookie gulped and then snickered, but Constanza grabbed his arm. "Snookie...they're gonna kill him! Him and his girlfriend, and all the rest of those poor Muppets! How can you just _lay_ here and watch this!"

"Look, I don't know him at all, really," Snookie argued, every ounce of self-preservation instinct already on overdrive. "He just came down here to...to find me..." He fell silent, thinking about that. _This guy didn't know you from Sam and his friends, and he said he's been looking for you for months. And now he's up there with all those creeps where he doesn't stand a chance of walking out alive..._ His throat felt dry, his stomach twisted in a knot worse than the time Carl made him into a salted soft pretzel. He looked at Constanza. _And here's this brave little chick, who risked her own felt trying to get you out of the pie-tin of doom._ She glared challengingly at him.

"Well?" she demanded. "Do you intend to just hide here all night? How deep does that yellow go, anyway?"

Snookie scowled at her. "Look, I'm no coward, but don't you see how many monsters are up there? Except for Carl's audience, and this guy," he indicated the cringing, traumatized ogre, "that would be, let's see, one, two, oh _all_ of them! We set foot anywhere _near_ there, and we won't even get the courtesy of being baked before being sliced and diced, kid!"

Constanza's face turned dark. "I'm not a kid!" She withdrew from him a little under the bunk. "I thought you were so stoic...so heroic for withstanding all they did to you...guess I was wrong about you."

Chagrined, Snookie looked from her to the Muppetian standoff on the screen. "No, I...I mean it wasn't ever like...oh..." He blew out a frustrated, guilty breath. "Oh...cripes."

She stared at him. "Cripes?"

He gave her a wry frown. "It's a Wisconsin thing. What it means right now is...we're gonna have to go barge in there and give him a distraction, aren't we?"

A slow grin spread on her sharp face. "We'll be Butch and Sundance."

Snookie shuddered. "I didn't know you were old enough to have seen that movie."

"Come on," she ordered, crawling out from under the bed. "This'll be epic!"

Remembering a term he'd heard some of the goblins use while taking pictures of the unlucky contestants on several of the shows he hosted, Snookie muttered, "Yeah...an epic _fail..."_ With a sigh, and not a little admiration of the energy and courage his new girlfriend was displaying, he went after her. A thought hit him on the way out the door. "I have a _girlfriend,"_ he muttered aloud, wonderstruck. Before he could fall fully into a mental count of how many years it had been since his playboy, frat-house days, Constanza stopped, turned on a dime, and grabbed his cheeks in her soft hands. Startled, Snookie froze, then melted into her kiss.

She pushed him away with a low laugh. "And if you wanna _keep_ her, move your foam," she said. "Just think! We're gonna stand up to these bullies on live TV! What a coup for Muppet rights!"

"Sounds more like right-to-die to me," Snookie grumbled, but with a strangely light heart for a man heading for his doom, he fell in step with her. Together, hand in hand, they raced along the empty corridor.

Captain Slurg hissed at the Underlord, "Want me to get that dynamite bag away from the interloper, your magnificence?"

The grim figure on the dais paced in a tight circle. "It seems we must. This is exceedingly distressing, Slurg. Had you neutralized this fool when I ordered you to..."

Stung, the piranha-faced thing growled. "It was not _my_ fault! We _did_ retrieve his floozy!"

"Which is now a moot point," the Underlord growled back. His pet caterpillar bared her little fangs at Slurg to echo the master's disapproval. _"If_ you wish a higher place than dung-shoveler in our new regime, _do_ something about this nuisance!"

"Burt!" Slurg ordered, startling the wolflike creature which had been watching events unfold from the back of the crowd. "Stop him!"

Newsie clung tight to the knapsack, feeling his knees trying to buckle, desperately staying upright though the sight of so many monsters glaring at him made him want to flee. If he hadn't taken so many of those anti-monsterphobia pills, he had no doubt that right now he'd be grabbing Gina's hand and running for dear life. Or possibly fainting. Gina leaned over to whisper in his ear, "What now?"

"I'm just a reporter!" he muttered back. "I have no idea! On the cop shows, this is usually the point at which the bad guys give up...or..."

"Graaaaahhh!" yelled Big Mama, impatient with all of it. She lunged forward. Newsie dodged, Gina threw her arms under his and lifted him backwards, and the angry monster nearly smacked into a wall.

"Or when things go badly wrong!" Newsie finished, trying his best to keep the knapsack over his head as though he was going to hurl it down any second. He didn't think such a bluff would buy him enough time to free everyone; they looked badly stuck in that webbing, and all he had left in the bag was a coil of rope, which wouldn't scare anybody! Suddenly two huge brown paws grabbed the bag away from him. Newsie yelped and jumped, but couldn't retrieve it. Gina whirled, instinctively shoving Newsie out of the way, but stopped in shock when she saw a big-mouthed, kangaroo-eared monster three times the size of the grumpy-jawed Big Mama.

Even Bigger Mama growled at Newsie and Gina, then flipped the knapsack over and shook it out.

With a collective gasp, every single monster flinched, expecting an explosion.

The rope fell onto the Newsman's upturned nose, almost knocking off his glasses. When another second passed and everyone realized the bag was empty, a heavy sigh went around the ballroom. The Underlord began to chuckle, building up to another hard, mean laugh. Slurg darted forward, grabbed the rope, and snarled at Even Bigger, "Hold them!"

With a weighty scowl, the monster put a paw apiece on Newsie's and Gina's shoulders, pressing down. Newsie cried out in pain, and Gina made a sound of protest, but neither could free themselves from the massive grip of the beast. The scattered chortles and growls of triumph were overwhelmed by a bellow over the speakers hung around the room. _"Enough_ of this foolishness! It is time, my hideous brethren!"

Every eye turned to the dais. The Underlord reached down to an ornate box his trembling doglizard held up for him, and plucked out a large syringe. "The hour is upon us, my children! Tonight, we shall be hidden and skulking in the shadows no longer...we shall surge into the streets, and teach those simpering surface-dwellers what it _really_ means to be scared of the dark! Night evermore shall make this city our playground, our hunting-ground!"

Murmurs of approval swept the room. Gina tried to reach her Newsie, but the enormous monster kept her pinned in place while the ugly, toothy thing used Newsie's rope to bind him hand and foot. Newsie yelled, "You're traitors, all of you! The Muppets have only ever been _kind_ to you, and _this_ is how you repay them? They let you act onstage! They let you _eat_ them for a few cheap laughs! And now you're going to kill them just because this _nutjob_ wants you to?"

"Slurg," the Underlord said, almost mildly, not looking up as he jabbed himself in the arm with the needle. Newsie couldn't tell if it hurt at all; the bandages covered too much of the figure's face to see any expression.

Slurg grimaced at Newsie, and wrapped one loop of the rope so that it went over Newsie's nose and lodged in his mouth. The fiend yanked it tight, and Newsie gave a grunt of pain, and then couldn't say anything at all. Gina struggled more, but the monster behind her put her other paw down, and she was held firmly where she stood. Newsie blinked up at her, his eyes watering, and Gina suddenly wanted her claws back.

Newsie looked over at his friends, similarly bound in layers of horrible spider-silk. He actually felt sympathy for Rizzo and Pepe for once, as he saw the two of them trying unsuccessfully to wriggle away from a huge orange-furred spider hovering over them with a knife and fork in two of its prickly feet and a checkered bib around its thick neck. _Scooter, Sara, Kermit, Piggy...oh no, even little Robin! And...and isn't that Mr Bland? Or Blander? One of them, anyway...looks like every Muppet they could catch is trapped in here...wait. Not Chester?And where's Rhonda?_ He squinted at the trussed Muppets. _No, they're not here...are they saving them for something else? Was Rhonda...eaten?_ He noticed that walrus was flopped in a corner, tethered by a skein of silk around his tail, looking dazed and ill and covered in what might be castor oil. _Maybe...maybe Chester got away!_ This made him think of Murrow. He looked back at Gina, a glimmer of hope sparking in his chest. _If only the inspector can bring the National Guard down here...maybe he's on his way right now...maybe any second..._

"It is time for all of you – for the entire _world –_ to see what happens when those simpering fools vilify someone, when they call him a monster so often he vows to prove them right!" the Underlord bellowed. He shuddered, staggering, and the assembly fell back a step, every eye wide, every jaw slack, as ripples and disturbing undulations rocked the Underlord. "Eustace!" he gasped, flinging his arms wide, "Unveil me!"

Shaking, the doglizard crept forward, and began snipping and tugging loose the ragged shroud concealing the master's form. "All eyes! All eyes on me!" the Underlord snarled, and the camerafrackles who'd been hanging back unobtrusively now pushed their instruments forward, terrified, intent on the transformation making their master even more frightening than usual.

Even Bigger Mama stood transfixed. Gina managed to edge closer to her love, and put her hand on Newsie's shoulder; he leaned against her, thinking, _Oh frog...at least we'll go down together..._

The shroud dropped to the floor.


	62. Chapter 53-2

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE (part two). _In which the final form of the Underlord is revealed, to the horror of most and the joy of Gonzo._

Every television set in the underground complex seemed to have been deliberately left on; while this was by no means an uncommon thing, the utter emptiness of the halls and studios and cells unnerved Snookie deeply. In room after room as they navigated the corridors, he could hear, and sometimes see, a screen blaring out monstrous laughter and the cold, imperious tones of the Underlord, with no other sign of life save a few of the slow-moving glowworms. They found the tunnel just ahead collapsed, a mass of granite rocks and gray dust. Constanza made a sound of irritation, but Snookie pointed to a door next to the cave-in. "These studios usually have a front and a back exit," he told her. He pulled the door open, and they found a studio dressed to look like a plush bedroom, although the satin comforter was rumpled askew, lamps had crashed to the shag carpet, and a privacy screen knocked over. Snookie paused, bemused. "Oh man... _please_ don't tell me the monsters have started shooting _that_ kind of direct-to-video release..."

"Snookie...who the heck is that guy?" Constanza asked, pointing to a TV switched on in a corner. A writhing, shuddering figure onstage was being unraveled from a cocoon of long rags; as they watched, transfixed, the last of the wrappings fell away. A large, excessively plump man with pale skin and no hair grabbed his pulsing head and groaned. The monsters gathered around let out a collective gasp of fear and drew away as though a wave had hit them.

Snookie stared hard. _Holy crap, looks like a cave grub suddenly put in the spotlight...why does he seem familiar?_ Then the man raised his crumpled face to the camera, his pug nose, round cheeks, and protruding forehead almost meeting in the center as he scowled and roared in pain. Snookie caught his breath, stunned. "That – that's – Rupert Q. Pattypan!" He was amazed almost as much by his memory of the creep's name as by his sudden reappearance under these circumstances.

Constanza stared at the individual on the dais, wrinkling her lip at the folds of fat bouncing over the jockey shorts. "He _really_ needs a detox regimen... Should I know this guy? Is he a famous beef industry spokesman or something?"

Snookie shook his head. "No...he's nobody...he...he was the night watchman at WOOP...local UHF station, went under years ago. _'Swift Wits'_ was syndicated on it for a while, after KMUP stopped broadcasting and before MMN bought the rights... Yeesh. What the hey is he doing down _here?"_

Constanza grimaced. "Not getting _nearly_ enough sun, apparently."

They stood in stunned silence a few seconds longer. On the screen, the rotund man with undulating body parts grabbed a microphone in one clawlike hand, and in between hoarse gasps, began a defiantly triumphant rant. "Now, friends and fiends, _now_ you shall witness what happens when someone is regarded as a freak, a loser, a _monster_ by people far more shallow, insipid, and unimaginative! Tonight, when darkness sweeps over your city, and you realize the monsters have finally come for you, oh yes, that we are finally _on_ Maple Street – _then_ you shall finally understand the hate _you_ yourselves have fostered! I was nobody to you! Well now I am more than somebody – I am your ultimate nightmare! I _am_ the terror that crawls in the night! For years you mocked me, you 'pretty' people, you morons obsessed with your reality TV and your double-shot lattes and your disgustingly cheerful Muppet celebrities!"

Constanza shivered, but tried to deflect her anxiety with a joke the way her newfound Romeo did. "I wouldn't call you disgustingly cheerful," she told him, putting more sarcasm in her voice than she felt currently. "More like aggressively mocking. Carl's _food_ is more disgusting."

"Believe me, I only wish I was famous enough to be included in his little psycho-rant," Snookie muttered.

"So this...Squash guy...isn't targeting you?"

"Pattypan. And I don't think it makes much of a difference to him how famous I am now," Snookie said, unable to stop a shiver. "I'm still a Muppet."

Constanza felt a surge of pride for him. _Yes. And All Muppets ought to stick together! Fight the power!_ "We need to get up there and fast! Where's that being filmed?"

"I...I'm not sure." Snookie frowned. "I see windows...aboveground?"

"Zey are in ze hotel upstairs," came a strange chorus. "Help...us..."

The frightened Whatnots whirled, and saw a truly scary sight: a gelatinous mass in a corner of the fake bedroom, a bedraggled pirate's hat atop it, legs sticking out at odd angles, and an unhappy rippling coursing all through it. Snookie shuddered, putting one arm in front of Constanza, although rationally he knew his neglected, weakened foam wouldn't protect her from a raging blob. He saw a gasping snout sticking out of the mass. _"Pew?"_ he demanded, horrified.

 _"Oui..._ eet is ah," a liquidy voice came from deep within the blob. Constanza saw the blob and the director speaking in unison, and hid her face behind Snookie's shoulder. "Help us, _mon ami!"_

"You forced me to host that awful daredevil show!" Snookie snapped, backing away slowly. "We are _not_ ' _amis'!"_

"Ohhh please, just pull us apart," the blob moaned, though Pew's jaws moved in time with the words. "I can't stand French food!"

The enmeshed creatures reached pleadingly toward Snookie. Overwhelmed, he grabbed Constanza's hand and ran for the opposite door.

In the ballroom, the gathered monsters stared in awe and terror as Rupert Q. Pattypan, a nobody no more, spat and trembled in the throes of an awful transformation. "None of you saw my greatness! I was mocked by the world of men, and when I demanded my rightful place among the Muppet monsters, I was told I was not _monstery_ enough!" the Underlord roared.

Shaken, Kermit looked at Scooter. "Did we ever see this guy before?" He realized the initial vetting of new talent, during the height of their television show's popularity, had been farmed out to Jim and Frank and some of those guys who helped out around the theatre; could one of them have rejected this crazed man and started him on this tunnel to ruin?

Scooter shook his head. "I think I would've remembered him!"

Hearing part of this, the Underlord pointed a shaking paw of a hand at them. "Lies! Lies! I didn't even get an audition! You sent back my résume with a curt note about not having any use for people _pretending_ to be monsters!" A surge washed through him, and he wavered, grabbing the mic stand for balance. Eustace stared in a mix of disgust and fascination: his lord and master was a mere human? _How...atrocious!_ The Underlord kept gesturing at the trapped Muppets against the far wall. "Well am I monstrous enough for you now? Hey? _Am I?"_

"Look, I don't know what all this is about, but if you wanted to be on our show, why didn't you just audition as yourself?" Kermit shouted. "Why claim to be a monster?"

"I am on the _inside!"_ the Underlord howled, starting to scratch at his chest in a disturbingly violent manner. Sara shut her eyes; Scooter tried again to reach her, to comfort her, angry at the web strands which held him fast.

"Oh I can't look," Fozzie moaned, turning his face into his suspended arm, on the verge of crying. "Make him stop! Someone!"

Newsie pressed against Gina, both of them powerless to stop the crazytrain barreling down on everyone now. Her free hand clung tightly to his shoulder, and he wished he could tell her one last time how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, but the rope in his mouth prevented more than a gurgle. She held him as close as she could, still imprisoned herself by Even Bigger Mama's enormous claws, and whispered fiercely, "I love you, Aloysius! I'll always love you, no matter what!" Newsie felt tears welling up afresh, and turned his head, needing whatever contact he could still manage with her. The floor quivered underfoot, and dust shook down from the ceiling. Newsie wondered in dismay whether his and Gina's grief would bring down the building on their heads before this horrible event could come to its bloody conclusion, or whether even the strange and unpredictable power they seemed to share would be too weak to prevent the rise of the worst monster of them all.

"Ahhhh!" the Underlord howled, bent double by a streak of pain. "I'm changing! I'm _Ascending!"_ Eustace noticed the huge dusty clock on the wall poised at ten-thirty, the seconds marking off like a death-march. "The moment is now! Kill them, my pets! Kill the Muppets! Open the portal and send their souls to endless darkness! Give me power unbridled, power incarnate, power to destroy all that has held us down and kept us from our destiny! _Kill them now!"_

Several of the monsters, moved more by fear than by any sense of the moral rightness of the Monster Race, lined up opposite the entrapped Muppets, wielding axes, blowtorches, or their own fearsome claws and teeth. They exchanged nervous glances. Kermit squeezed Piggy's hand tight; she closed her eyes, trying one last time to force her way free. Robin gulped back a sob. "I love you guys," Kermit croaked, "All of you!" Camilla clucked and swooned; Gonzo clutched her to his chest, staring in horror at the figure on the dais, who seemed to be expanding as though an air pump had been turned on in his already-huge belly. Rizzo and Pepe shivered uncontrollably as the furry orange spider raised them within an inch of its drooling jaws, and hugged one another.

"So long, pal," Rizzo gulped.

"Jou are not so bad, for a rat," Pepe admitted.

Rizzo drew back, affronted. "Really? We're about to be chewed into little pieces by the Arachnid of Doom here and you gotta put a _qualifier_ on dat? _Really?"_

The ballooning, twisting, _changing_ underlord roared in a voice now more rough and monstrous than any creature's in the room, _"Kill them all!"_

 _"STOOOOOP!"_ came an answering howl; the monsters cringed. Two of the smaller Frackles fainted, unable to process so much emotional strain. Startled, the Muppets and monsters all looked toward the ballroom doorway. There, with lightning flashing overhead, loomed a shadowy figure: it seemed to have multiple arms and writhing hair. Then the wriggling things detached from the shoulders of the caped figure, sliding and hopping into the room as a menacing, dramatic individual advanced behind them, arms upraised. _"Cease this foolishness at once!"_ Uncle Deadly ordered in his most threatening tone; his voice carried through the room like a tidal wave, and he was pleased all his diction lessons at Oxford had not been wasted.

"Stop! Awww! Stop stop stop! Yip! Yip yip yip yip yip uh-huh!" cried a raggedy pink thing.

"Mmmnn, stoooop! Yip yip yip stop!" echoed a raggedy blue thing.

Newsie's eyes were as wide as they could get. _They're on our side? But...but...didn't they hurt Ethel?_

Scooter blew out a breath of relief. "I think that's the first time I've been _glad_ to see him interrupt an act," he muttered.

The malevolent monsters froze, their attention centered on the vengeful ghost as he stalked into the room, sweeping his cape down behind him and glaring around with angry green pinpricks of eyes. Wherever that gaze passed, a monster winced and looked away. "If _any_ of you are so depraved as to harm even _one_ of this motley troupe of players, I shall _personally_ see to it they haunt you for the rest of your miserable lives!" Deadly promised, his hollow voice echoing in the suddenly-still room. "I shall see to it that every one of the murdered souls becomes a ghost every bit as powerful and dangerous as _me,_ and don't think I won't do it! Death and I are like _this!"_ He crossed his fingers, and the monsters all gasped, groaned, or flinched.

The pink tentacled thing paused in its agitated gyrations, tapping the ghost on one tap-heeled boot. "Uh...aww...how?"

Deadly shrugged. "Well, we have poker night every Tuesday. The old sod is _terrible_ at five-card stud. You should _see_ the tab he's run up; he owes me _big_ -time."

"Deadly, get us out of here!" Kermit called.

The dragon huffed. "What does it _look_ as though I'm doing?" He glared around the room again. "You have all apparently forgotten the second-most important rule about the undead – the first of which, of course, is 'Never get involved in a ghost war in Chinatown,' but no _less_ important is this: _Never_ underestimate the power of a _Phantom_ when the Muppets are down and Death himself is on the line!'" He pulled a cell phone from his vest pocket. "I have him on speed dial, fools! Don't make me use it!"

Steve the giant spider groaned deeply, dropped Rizzo and Pepe, and swooned; he'd always had nightmares about ghosts. The other monsters hesitated.

The clock ticked over: ten thirty-two.

"Imbeciles!" a deafening roar startled everyone. The Underlord stretched himself upright, his head now just below the high ceiling, and snarled at all of them, "Fools! Wretches! I see _none_ of you are worthy of the supreme monster regime! _None_ of you can call yourselves members of the Glorious Monster Race! I am more monstrous than _all_ of you put together!"

"Looks _bigger_ than 'em all put together," Rowlf observed unhappily.

The trembling Frackles and cowering goblins and assorted fiends, ogres, bugbears and bedbugs all looked at one another. Several of them lowered their weapons and began backing away, the order to kill the Muppets superseded by utter terror at the warped, twisted form of their still-changing master. "You will _all perish!"_ the bulbous, wormy thing roared, even as what had been his arms drew in close to his pale thick body and what had been legs stretched and hardened. Newsie had a vision of a gigantic bug unfolding from a pupa casing, and cringed against Gina; she held his shoulder so tightly she could feel the foam scrunched against his bones, but neither of them made a sound, too shocked. The ballroom rumbled, the walls shaking. Deadly cast a look around, surprised and concerned. _"All_ of you will be my first feast, in this, my utmost glory of monsterdom! I will show you all what a _real_ monster looks like!" the warped voice howled. Smaller monsters began to rip down the ancient shutters over the ballroom windows, desperate to get away before they could be eaten or crushed, whichever came first.

 _"Rahhhh_ ha ha ha ha ha!" yelled an unexpected voice. Jaws dropped all over the room as Animal thumped to the floor, freed of the not-quite-cotton-candy. He stared at the nearest monster, the unfortunate J G. _"Can-dy!"_ roared the manic drummer, and tackled the ponderous Frackle. A cheer erupted from the Mayhem members.

"Ack! No, wait, wait, I think you have me confused with someone else," J G protested, trying to block the blows even as tufts of green fur scattered to the four winds. "I have a _cousin_ named Candy, but she's much shorter, and we really don't sound that much alike even though my brother Mike says...snoorrrrkkk..." As Animal paused, bewildered by the monster's sudden sleep attack, Walter cried out.

 _"Looook!"_

All eyes shot to the dais. With a final shudder, the Underlord finished his transformation. He looked around wildly, flapped his stumps of arms, and opened his beak.

 _"BAWWWWWWK!"_

Rosie McGurk stared. He turned to his brother. "Wagga happa?"

Thatch thought of serums and ingredient substitutions, and suddenly turned a deeper shade of purple and had something else to look at, over there, on the floor perhaps...

Gonzo's jaw slowly dropped until you could have run a rhino into his mouth. "Oh...my...goodnesss! Look at those _legs!_ Look at that chest!"

The Underlord had become a twelve-foot-tall, completely featherless...

The blue Martian blinked. "Aww _aww_. Chick-en."

Camilla came to her senses woozily, conscious of a great hubbub around her, of the room shaking, of the web bouncing crazily. She blinked and managed to focus. There stood the biggest naked chicken she'd ever seen, and Gonzo...

Wanda twisted herself closer to Walter and thrust her hand over the dazed kid's eyes. "Don't look!"

 _Gonzo_ was looking.

Camilla suddenly gained a burst of strength, of energy, and of absolute jealous _rage._

 _"Buh-gawk bawk buh BAWK!"_ she shrieked, and with a mighty flap of her wings, burst free of the web and launched herself right at the startled face of the interloper. Her sharp little beak hit home several times in quick succession like semi-automatic chickenfire, and the Underchicken flinched and cackled unhappily, but then the featherless freak recovered enough sense to bat her out of the air with a meaty, pimply-skinned wing. Camilla clucked in alarm and scooted to one side before an enormous taloned foot stomped down.

Uncle Deadly huffed and puffed and finally tossed his whiskers in the air in contempt. "Now this is just _silly!_ Evil tyrants deserving of a grand speech, I will always be glad to confront...but a...a giant...escapee from a rotisserie?" He snorted and drew his cloak around him. "This is just _silly,_ and I, master thespian, do _not_ do _silly!"_ He glared once more at the giant poultry, and vanished.

Newsie tried to shake his head, convinced he was dead or dreaming. Gina gasped, unsure whether to laugh or scream. When the giant chicken lurched closer, Even Bigger Mama decided she didn't want to be stepped on either, and stumbled backward, abruptly freeing Gina. Gina cried out, knocked off-balance, but before she could hit the floor, her Newsman wrenched his body under hers, bracing her. Their eyes met, and another tremor rocked the room, spoiling a lunge the Underchicken was making at Camilla. Gina grabbed the rope and began tugging the knots loose with frantic fingers.

Gonzo shook himself, trying not to watch, then worrying about his sweetie and watching. "Camilla! Look out for the beak! –Oh, holy poultry, _what_ a beak!"

Eustace stumbled away from the reeling, wildly thrashing chickens, his expression echoing the disgust Deadly had displayed. "This is madness!" he growled, and jumped at a voice right behind him; he'd strayed too near the web.

"No, man," Floyd Pepper wheezed, grinning although strands of web decorated his hat. "This...is... _poultry!"_

Eustace hissed, pulling away from the Muppet who'd been so careless as to actually _talk_ to him, raising his tail to teach the insolent creature a lesson – but then the room shook again, as much from the enormous feet of the Underchicken stomping as from the bewildered anxiety coming from the Newsman. A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling on the doglizard's head, and he coughed, decided he'd be better off making a break for the tunnels, and fled – but the doorway collapsed atop him. With a collective squeal, most of the giant bugs skittered up the walls, finding any crevice they could to escape, all focused on fleeing back underground.

"Animal! Up here, man!" Floyd yelled. Animal looked up at him, and when Floyd gestured with his free hand at the wobbly webbing, Animal's eyes widened in comprehension. He jumped up, biting the silk strands starting to fray, and hung on by his powerful jaws, doing his best to chew through. Seeing this, the two raggedy creatures climbed tentacle-over-eyestalk up into the spiderweb, their wide mouths closing over sections of webbing and chewing for all their worth.

"Ahhhh nom nom nom!" Animal gargled, his arms and legs dangling free as he flopped by his teeth like a hooked bass fish.

"Nom. Nom nom. Yip yip yip nom."

"Awww nom nom nom," mumbled Blue. He paused, suddenly aware he had something other than spider-silk in his mouth; shrimp and monster stared at one another a second. Then Blue spat Pepe to the floor. "Aww. Cat. Unh-uh. Nooope nope nope."

"Like, should I be insulted already or what, okay?" Pepe grumbled, trying to pluck stray strands of stickiness off what _had_ been a pair of designer crab leather pants.

"Who cares? Me next! Me next!" yelled Rizzo.

Camilla fluttered and dodged, clucked and weaved, as the enraged giant plucked chicken tried time and again to stomp, to peck, and to bat at her with featherless wings. "Get 'em, sweetie!" Gonzo yelled, exhilarated. _Oh my frog I must be dreaming, this is JUST like that one fantasy where... oh geez..._ "No prisoners!" he crowed, waving his arms in ecstasy.

Gina finally freed Newsie of the binding rope. He gasped deeply, and threw his arms around her. She hugged him tightly in return, but then the floor trembled so violently she nearly fell to her knees. "Everybody _out!"_ Gina shouted, hoping they could hear her over the tumult of angry chickens. "There's going to be another psychokinetic energy event! Everyone abandon ship!"

Fozzie staggered over to them, out of the way of the chickenfight, grabbing Gina's arm when another rumble rocked the floor, then giving her an apologetic wince. "But we're not on a ship!"

"Abandon hotel, then!" Newsie yelled hoarsely.

Timmy, the Thing from the Green Lagoon, had been secretly relieved when that dragon had distracted everyone past the killing moment, but now he feared for his tail. Remembering the explosion he'd sent the still-absent Lunchy after belowground, he saw those scientist guys struggling with the web nearby, and grabbed a saw-nosed beetle to cut them free. "Hey, uh...I saw a crack in the foundation...is the chickenfight gonna wreck this place?" he asked them.

Beaker leaned away from the ponderous amphibian monster; he'd seen it cough up that poor walrus earlier! But Bunsen dusted his lab coat off gratefully, and adjusted his spectacles. "No, what we're experiencing is the result of two naturally-occurring psychokinetic fields converging in a dangerous and potentially reality-warping overlap of concurrent frequencies!" he explained.

"Meemurrent meemencies," Beaker agreed, casting a nervous look at the rattling ceiling boards.

Timmy gave them a blank look. "So...uh...is the hotel gonna hold up?"

Bunsen considered it while a bevy of boards narrowly missed both him and Beaker, crashing down between them. "Well, I _might_ have projected a ten per cent chance that the building itself would survive the coming quake, had its foundation not _already_ sustained damage, but with that information in hand, I would have to revise that estimate to –"

"Meee!" shrieked Beaker, as one of the wall sconces fell on him.

"Slim to none!" Bunsen finished, alarmed. He put an anxious hand to his mouth, regarding his downed assistant. "...Beaker?"

"Oh my god," Gonzo whimpered, awed at the sheer magnificence of one gracefully flapping chicken and one stupendous plucked one tangled in the primordial dance of sheer avian fury. "Somebody bring me some popcorn..."

Snookie grabbed Constanza's arm. "Wait!"

She tugged at him, irritated. "But those steps go up! That's _gotta_ be the way out!"

"I see lights moving around down that tunnel," Snookie pointed out. "Might be a patrol! We need to find cover!"

Constanza yanked on the knob of a red door opposite the brick-lined side tunnel. "It's locked! We'll just have to run for it!" She tugged twice more just to make sure the door wasn't simply stuck from all the mildewy dampness down here, and suddenly it flew open. She and Snookie froze, staring at the tall opossum in a shredded lab coat glaring at them from ill-fitting safety goggles.

"What? _What?_ Can't you see I'm busy?" the creature cried.

Snookie knew that voice. "Dah...Doctor Van Neuter?"

The thing cringed, then hurriedly waved his hands in a shooing motion. "No! Never heard of him! Nope! Nosiree! Now go away!" _SLAM._

Constanza began giggling. "Seriously?"

Snookie recovered first, pulling her toward the slippery-looking steps. "Come on! If we're lucky they're slugs and we can outrun—"

"Hey you! Hold it right there! DEA!"

"Oh frog no," Snookie moaned. "Okay, look, guys, this isn't what it looks like; we were trying to _join_ the party upstairs and—"

Constanza frowned. "DEA?"

The bobbing lights and footstep noises emerged from the tunnel. A group of men in bulletproof vests with flashlights and pesticide sprayers came to a halt at the foot of the stairs. One of them raised his riot mask to peer uncertainly at the shorter Muppets. "These them?"

A purple Whatnot bellied his way to the front of the line to scowl at Snookie and Constanza. "Nahh...these two are victims! Take 'em for decon." Two of the men grabbed the arms of the Muppets, over Constanza's loud protests, but then a growing rumble made everyone pause. Special Inspector Murrow frowned. "Hold your position; that sounds like..."

Lights lifted to the stairs to illuminate a rushing flood of bugs.

"Aaaaaah!" Snookie shrieked, throwing his arms over his head; Constanza ducked behind one of the guys with the riot gear. The skittering, squealing tidal wave of insects both tiny and gigantic slammed into the Health Department-FDA-DEA joint task force operatives, and suddenly the Muppets coughed and hacked as gallons of insecticide was sprayed into the tunnel from panicked agents. Murrow yelled at them to stop, citing regulations about enclosed areas and toxic gases, and finally the agents turned off their sprayers and took stock of the situation.

Snookie coughed, waving his hands, and stepped over a caterpillar fallen at his feet. It seemed to be white and furry, and as he hesitantly examined it, it hiccuped. Startled, he jerked away. The caterpillar lolled, rubbed his foot, and began purring...and hiccuping. Both quite loudly.

Constanza glared around at the dazed bugs all flopping, trying to crawl and failing, or laying on their hard backs waving their multiple legs and giggling. "Oh, wonderful. You made them all _drunk."_

Murrow's brow furrowed even as his eyes widened. "I...I didn't expect that!"

"Come on," the veteran activist said, brushing the water from her eyes; it wasn't the first time she'd been onion-gassed. "The Muppets are still in trouble! They _need_ us!"

What sounded like industrial demolition pounded upstairs, and dust sifted from the ceiling. Nervous flashlights trained in that direction showed tiny cracks spreading rapidly. "Nobody told me we needed a civil engineer as well!" Murrow muttered darkly. "I don't have the forms for that! We'll have to go back!"

One of the agents stepped over to him, ripping his mask off to argue. "The seek-and-destroy part of this operation is under _my_ command, and we need to find and neutralize _all_ of the genetically-altered insects before they spread through the city and cause millions of dollars of damage to the infrastructure!"

"You wouldn't even know about the mass of violations down here if it hadn't been for me!" Murrow snapped.

Snookie shook his head, gesturing at the stairs. "Uh, guys? Big Uggy still up there somewhere? Muppets in danger? Anyone?"

"Your role was provisional – you're just here to make sure procedure is followed!"

"And part of that procedure is seeing to it that all necessary forms have been filed! This building is unstable and clearly we need an engineer, or at the very least a city building inspector, to—"

Seeing this was going to take a while, Snookie agreed with Constanza, and the two of them crept up the stairs while the territorial dispute continued. He took her hand, assisting her over the slippery parts; he'd had a lot of experience with navigating slippery things...such as monster digestive tracts. Constanza met his eyes, and gave him a smile. It was fierce and determined and possibly a little onion-gas drunk, and right then Snookie knew he was in love again. _And for more than a week this time._ Feeling far more joyous than this mission called for, he clambered up the stone steps toward a new destiny.


	63. Chapter 53-3

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE (part three). _In which the epic chicken-Whatever fight brings down the house._

Most of the Muppets were free now or on the verge of being so. Most of the monsters were simply trying to get out of the way, paws over their cringing heads, eyestalks, or fragile horns as the case might be. Camilla seemed to be tiring, her stylishly clipped wings not meant for sustained flights, and the monster chicken was clucking and slamming its beak into the floor, the now-crumbling walls, and at whatever fell in its way in its furious efforts to impale the more nimble white-feathered hen. Gina waved at them all. "Hey! _Everybody out!"_

"This is a Muppet News Flash!" Newsie shouted, trying to get their attention as well. "Studies show that collapsing buildings are the only effective trap for monster chicken things!"

But only the Muppets closest to them heard. Walter tried to look around, alarmed, but Wanda wasn't letting go of his face, doing her best to preserve his innocence. "What...what's going on? I can't see!"

All of them hit the floor a moment as the Underchicken swiped a meaty wing right where their heads had been. "Aaah, did I ever tell ya da one about da evil dictator crossing da road?"

Rowlf helped an unsteady Chef to his feet; the Chef's hat had been flattened although he himself seemed all right. "Fozzie, I don't think this is really the time or the—"

"He was trying to get to da _underside!_ Aaa _aaah!"_

Rizzo tugged on Gonzo's sleeve. "Hey, buddy, good ta see ya again. I was beginnin' ta worry you'd gone Hollywood and forgotten your old pals."

Too distracted to really notice the rat, Gonzo mumbled, "Yeah, extra butter would be great, thanks...and can I have some gummi spiders melted over it?"

Affronted, Rizzo smacked the Whatever's shoulder. "Earth to Gonzo! Are you gonna sit there and watch your chickie battling the Swedish Film Chicken or are ya gonna _help_ her?"

"Noog un Svedish chickie!" the Chef objected.

Gonzo blinked. "Oh, hey, Rizzo. When did you get here?"

"Unbelievable," Rizzo groaned.

"Jou really has to stop stealing my lines, amigo."

The Newsman stumbled and staggered on the rumbling floor over to his friends, clutching Gina's arm tightly so he didn't fall and flatten his nose. "Is everyone all right?" Nods and voices all replied affirmatively, but Newsie looked among them in vain for a yellow game-show host or a blonde rat. "Has anyone seen Chester or Rhonda?" he shouted over the crash of another of the ballroom's web-choked chandeliers.

Gonzo came out of his trance, Rizzo's words finally making their way to his dazed brain. "Camilla! Camilla, look out!"

The hen spared him an annoyed glance, too busy dodging the enraged giant Underchicken to cluck at him. She pecked at one enormous toe, and the Underchicken roared a window-shaking cackle of pain and then stomped. Camilla sidestepped and aimed for the other foot – and then a blue arm was around her waist, yanking her back. Camilla clucked, startled and frightened, and the sharp beak slammed into the floorboards right where she'd been standing so hard it stuck. As the Underchicken tried to wrench itself free, Camilla turned her head up to see the bulbous, concerned, wonderfully expressive eyes of her beloved weirdo. "Bawwwwk?" she asked, not trusting the hope welling up in her feathery breast.

"If you think I'm gonna let you put yourself in _half_ the danger I enjoy," Gonzo said roughly, "you're dead wrong!" He tossed her aside and aimed a kick at the Underchicken's wattles. "Hiiii-yah!"

The other Muppets stared. "Decent form," Scooter murmured respectfully.

Miss Piggy shook her head. "He exhaled too soon. Not enough force."

Honeydew noticed Gina. "Aha! Well, it's good to see this psychokinetic trauma is _not,_ in fact, the result of one of my assistant's inventions failing yet again! What happened to your portable field blocker generator device?"

Beaker rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Let's just get out of here before the whole place caves in!" Newsie urged.

"Every monster for himself!" howled Beautiful Day, scrabbling at the boarded-over windows.

"And _that's_ the attitude that got us all into this mess in the first place!" J G scolded him. "Now, see, if we'd started that Monster Benevolent Union last year like Hubert suggested, we'd have been able to _counter_ the Underlord's demands with an offer of our own, and under the collective bargaining agreement which I co-authored with Shakey, we never would have...snnnnnkkktt..."

"Speakin' of counters, where's Lunchy?" wondered Behemoth.

"There's no way out! We're all d-d-doomed!" Shakey cried. He grabbed a startled Kermit by the collar. "Help us!"

The Underchicken pulled its beak free of the floor finally and oriented on Gonzo, waiting bravely in a toreador's stance. " _Aaaaaarrrribaaaa!"_ he yelled, flourishing a red tattered curtain in front of the speechless poultry...and suddenly he wasn't standing alone. Rosie McGurk brandished a snapped curtain rod. His big brother Thatch stepped up with a nail-studded broken board. And two raggedy tentacled things scooched in from either side, charged antennae bristling.

The Underchicken looked quickly at them all. Its eyes narrowed. A violent scream of sheer defiance came from its wobbly throat, and it lunged at Gonzo. With a whoosh of the curtain like a cape, Gonzo swung out of the way, laughing, and Rosie stuck the curtainrod into the plucked right wing. The Underchicken whirled, clucking in rage.

"Now _that's_ an angry bird," Floyd said. Zoot nodded.

Rowlf scratched his head. "Where'd they get the little bullfighting hats?"

Kermit glared at the tiny monster hanging onto him until Piggy detached it distastefully from his collar. "You guys went along with this weirdness and didn't even bother warning the rest of us and now you want _help?"_

Behemoth, Beautiful Day, Big Mama, the Mutations, Timmy, and numerous other Muppet Show occasional cast members crowded around the knot of Muppets huddled by the windows, as far away as they could get from the weird fight going on by the dais. The monsters all nodded and pleaded and some even groveled. "We didn't want to! He was scary! Help us!"

Newsie winced as a chunk of ceiling tumbled down, missing Gonzo by a feather's-breadth. "How do we get out of here? This isn't the way I wanted to die!"

Gina hugged him, worried as well. "What if we both focus on...on an exit appearing? Try a News Flash!"

Newsie grimaced. "I think the cameraguy got taken out by a naked-chicken foot. Apparently it doesn't work without an actual broadcast."

Gina shook her head. "I love you, Newsie, but I am never ever going to understand Muppet logic..."

The Underchicken took a swipe at Thatch, missed and gouged the wall where the old dumbwaiter shaft had served as an escape back to the tunnels for several bugs. The cord holding the rickety old mechanism snapped, and a wooden box for running champagne up to the ballroom plummeted a hundred feet; faintly the muffled screams of a dozen smushed pillbugs and centipedes floated up. "Ha ha _hahhh!"_ Gonzo crowed, swooping and flapping his makeshift cape at the charging poultry. Off to one side, Camilla fanned herself with a wing, breathless and awed; she'd never found bullfighting sexy before...

Kermit yelled at Newsie, "Well do _something!_ I don't think this place has much left!"

Beaker suggested, "Meemee moo mo mo meep mo?"

"Excellent idea, Beakie!" Bunsen agreed.

Newsie and Gina gave the scientists a blank look. Hurriedly Bunsen paraphrased, "Perhaps if the two of you concentrated on getting these windows opened, and the larger monsters jumped down first to help the rest of us, the issue of a usable exit might be precipitated!"

"Mee mee mippy-mippy," Beaker reminded him.

Bunsen blushed. "I was getting to that...ahem..." He couldn't quite meet Newsie's and Gina's gazes. "Our previous calculations strongly suggest that the process would be greatly enhanced, and the chances of success improved by approximately thirty-seven-point-two-four percent, if the two of you also...erm..."

Gina looked at Newsie. "Windows," she said.

Confused, he muttered, "I thought you liked Mac better?"

With a tolerant shake of her head, she crouched by her Muppet love, grabbed his fuzzy felted cheeks in both hands, and pulled him hard into a passionate kiss. Understanding hit right after shock, and Newsie shut his eyes, kissing back just as fervently, and thinking _Open the windows, open the windows!_

"Come on, is that all you got?" Gonzo taunted, sidestepping another lunge. Thatch smacked the giant chicken with his board across the beak, and it swung its head angrily, tossing the startled monster into a wall. Rosie yelped and barely rolled out of the way of a claw-swipe.

Pepe stared. "I do not think making fun of the Colonel Sandy reject is _un bueno_ idea."

Rizzo gulped agreement. "More power to ya, buddy..."

The whole room shook crazily. Monsters lost their footing and tumbled into Muppets; Muppets pinwheeled for balance and grabbed hold of huge furry monsters. Everyone, it seemed, was holding onto everyone else except the crazy chickenfighters. With a crunch and the deafening roar of falling bricks, the wall of windows looking out onto Doyers Street fell; shocked, Kermit had just enough time to realize it was the _entire_ wall of the hotel before the floor tilted and he grabbed Robin and Piggy and went sliding out. Bodies furry and felted, scaled and horned and clad in tee-shirts, all tumbled in a mass exodus. Cries and screams and the crazed laughter of a Whatever were buried under the sounds of terrible destruction.

Coughing, Newsie worriedly brushed the gray-dusted hair of his Gypsy girl from her face, relieved when her eyes opened. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She adjusted his tilted glasses on his nose. "Nothing broken. You?"

"Same," he replied, and then realized she was sprawled atop him in a way he would be embarrassed to have anyone see. "Uhm." Quickly he scrambled to his feet, but upon looking around, saw everyone else was similarly tangled and not paying any attention to him, concerned with their own recovery from the fall. He saw someone yellow staring at the damage from across the street. "Chester?"

The plaid-coated Muppet approached, seeming a little stunned. "Aloysius?"

Newsie nodded, and stuck out his hand. Snookie looked at it, then at the anxious eyes of his cousin, and then did another in what was shaping up to be a long line of atypical actions tonight: he hugged Newsie. Gina smiled, trying to keep her bedraggled hair out of her face. A blue-and-pink-splotched girl stepped across the rubble in the street to stand by Snookie. Gina nodded at her. "Friend of his?"

Constanza grabbed Snookie's arm. "He's mine, sister. Don't even think about it."

Embarrassed, Snookie pulled away from Newsie. "Uh, I think she has her own squeeze. This is Const—I mean Stinkbomb," he said, remembering her preferred nickname.

When Constanza saw Gina drape her arms over Newsie's shoulders, she relaxed. "Oh. Um. Hi. Constanza le Whatnot." She stuck a dirty hand at Gina, who accepted it.

"How'd you get out?" Newsie asked. So many questions to ask! But for now he was just inexpressibly relieved to see his cousin _alive. Now...if only Rhonda made it..._

"Ran out the front door right before the whole place came down," Snookie said. He shook his head in awe at the rubble. "Hope those SWAT guys got back out the way they came in...or are _really_ good at digging."

Newsie blinked. "SWAT team?"

"Is everyone all right?" Kermit coughed, brushing the dust from his face. Everyone seemed to have a fresh coating of gray plaster and brick-dust on them.

"What happened to da giant chicken?" Fozzie asked, and several of the Muppets beginning to pull themselves upright looked around as well.

The pink Martian pulled himself out of a small pile of crumpled boards, and gestured at a larger pile of rubble. The entire hotel was nothing more than a heap of wreckage. "Aww. Chick-en un-der. _Un-der._ Yip yip yip."

The blue one shook itself in disagreement. "Un-uh un-uh un-uh. Chick-en _over. O-ver._ Awwww! Yip yip yip yip yip!"

"Yip yip yip yip _o-ver,_ unh-huh, un-huh!" they chorused excitedly.

Camilla clucked softly, peering at the pile of destruction. Rizzo did the same uneasily. "Hey, anybody seen Gonzo around?"

"I sincerely hope all this _weirdness_ is _through,"_ Sam grumbled, shaking his feathers and brushing the top of his head in disgust.

Rizzo looked at Pepe. "Did we just miss a joke somewhere?"

The shrimp shrugged. "Jou gots me, amigo. All I knows is there are scantily costumed girls at a party somewheres who are missing their Pepe right now!"

"You _wish."_

"Are we safe?" Walter wondered, still dazed. He felt something wriggling below his shirt, and fished out a flopping salmon. "Uh, I think this is yours." He handed the fish to Lew Zealand.

Lew exclaimed as he walked off, "You _naughty_ girl! He's half your age! Come on, let's go find a late show to watch...I think the wrestling match is over..."

Newsie looked at the ruined heap of broken bricks. "I...I had no idea you and I could..." The extent of the damage, though fortunate for the whole party, was nevertheless a bit frightening.

Gina nodded soberly. She turned to the scientists. "Can you guys make me another necklace?"

Beaker nodded eagerly. Bunsen elaborated, "Happily, as we know the exact field frequency of both of your psychokinetical, magnetical fields, we should be able to fix it again. Never fear, the power of science can resolve _all_ problems!"

With a fierce _BAAAAWWWWK!,_ the giant plucked chicken burst from the center of the rubble.

Bunsen put his hands up in consternation. "Well, _most_ problems..."

A fierce clucking built up to a roar which sent a few broken windows in adjoining buildings crashing to the street. The startled Muppets and monsters alike began to fall back, spreading out in the narrow street; a number of monsters immediately took to their paws and scattered away through the Lower East Side as fast as they could. Thatch helped Rosie out of a heap of bricks and crushed mortar, both of them so covered in gray dust as to be indistinguishable from each other. They stared in horror at the monstrosity rising unconquered and shaking its terrible wattles.

"Uhh...faggah," Rosie gulped. Thatch could only nod in stunned agreement.

"For the chickennnnns!" a wild shriek came from the still-standing tenement next to the hotel site. To everyone's surprise, the Great Gonzo, brandishing Rosie's curtain rod, saluted the crowd with a crazed look in his eyes, and then swiftly swung across the empty space from a busted window to land flat on the Underchicken's broad pimply back. "Ha ha _haaaah!"_

Piggy gaped. "When the heck did he have time to change into a gladiator outfit?!"

Scooter shook his head. "Never mind _that –_ where the heck did the _vine_ come from?"

Kermit tried to herd everyone to a safe distance down the street. "Come on, guys – let's get out of their way!" No one could argue with that. Feet, paws, and saddle shoes pounded the pavement of Doyers Street.

"I _know_ he's probably at the parade," Bland (or maybe Blander) was telling Blandish from the dubious safety of a shop awning across the way. "Go get him! Tell him it's urgent!"

Newsie cast an anxious eye about in vain for his reports producer. "I can't find Rhonda," he told Gina. "Do you think she's...she's..."

Gina hugged her worried Muppet tight. "I hope not, sweetie." She backed away farther, the thought striking her of the rest of Chinatown falling down if she and Newsie stayed together like this much longer; as upset as he understandably was, she didn't think _more_ damage would be forgivable tonight. _Or exempt from lawsuits,_ she thought, noticing the lawyer frumping at the whole scene. "My love...I think one of us should leave, before the subway collapses under us or something. I'll see if I can get hold of anyone at your station and make them send a camera crew, and maybe you can—"

"I'm not sure a News Flash is going to solve this," Newsie interrupted. "Look at that thing! If being crushed under a building didn't stop it, what will?"

Rizzo overheard. "Hasn't stopped _you_ yet."

Newsie glared, but then stooped to address the rat directly. "Have you seen Rhonda?"

He seemed surprised. "Huh? Blondie? No – oh, man, she wasn't in _dere,_ was she?"

Distraught, Newsie clasped his hands together, staring at the giant naked chicken being rodeo-ridden by a largely ineffective Gonzo. "Oh man," Rizzo gulped. "But...but...we can't go lookin' in dere right _now!_ Dat t'ing'll peck us all ta death!"

Confirming this sentiment, the Underchicken spotted Rosie and Thatch and struck a wickedly sharp beak at them. The brothers barely scrambled out of the way, tumbling feet-over-horns down the rubble heap. "Gazza! Heppa!" Rosie cried.

Gonzo yanked hard on the wattles like floppy reins. "Yeeeeeehaaaaaah!"

Gina kissed Newsie quickly. "Stay safe! I'll send help!" She grabbed Bunsen's shoulder. "You guys! Back to your lab before this gets any worse!"

Kermit muttered, "How could this possibly –"

A thump rippled along the street. Car alarms went off two blocks over.

Piggy growled, "You just _had_ to say it."

Another subsonic boom sounded, and this time the street pavement actually trembled. "That does not sound like help," Pepe said, slowly backing behind Beauregard. The frightened janitor clutched the ancient dustmop he'd rescued.

"Does this mean the fences are down?" he asked, remembering something about big mean dinosaurs.

Another boom traveled along the street, making even the Underchicken pause a moment; then it cackled in glee and tried to slam its body against the neighboring building; Gonzo hung on, though the blow made his eyeballs roll. "Ooh, yeah, make me like it..." he murmured, though fortunately Camilla, standing anxiously among the Muppet crowd, didn't hear him.

"Whaddevah it is, it's comin' closer!" Rizzo yelled.

Newsie shoved Gina away from him. "Go!" he shouted gruffly. "I love you!"

She gave him one worried, determined look, then took off. In seconds she was out of sight around the crooked angle of the street. Newsie sighed, glad she was out of danger, but then turning back to the giant freak lunging and reeling around the pile of wreckage, he realized it was only a matter of time before the Underchicken scraped Gonzo off its back...and then came for the rest of them...and what the hey was that weird booming? _Transformer stations? Overflying planes?_ Disturbing memories of another such sound on a very grim day in the city's history came to mind. Newsie strained on tiptoe but couldn't see anything in the night sky over the surrounding buildings. _No flames or smoke, that has to be a good sign, right? But then what..._ He saw Gina running back around the bend in the street. "Gina? What are you doing?" he yelled.

And then another deep, shuddering blow hit the concrete, making him wobble. Robin peeped in fear and hopped atop the Muppet nearest, which happened to be Beaker; he meeped agreement, backing against a closed Chinese tea room. Piggy steeled her sturdy legs, wondering what the heck _else_ was about to go badly wrong tonight, as her frog peered ahead worriedly. Only one overhead light cast its feeble glow along that end of the street, and as yet another horrible _boooom_ sent alarming tremors along the sidewalks, the glass in the lamp shivered and fell with a crash. The immediate mental association with another light bulb dropping was not comic at all this time.


	64. Chapter 53-4

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE (part four). _In which we find action, snark, true love, and Sweetum's cousin._

"What da heck has gone wrong wit' dis town?" Rizzo exclaimed. "Who's up next, King Kong?"

"I think maybe jou should not say these things aloud, okay?" Pepe said, raising a shaking hand to point at the thing looming around the bend in the street, its head on a par with some of the nearby tenements.

Dr Teeth turned to the Chef. "You would not, in your culinarian couture, have a giant bunch of bananas, would you, my man?"

But the thing which hove finally into view with two more earth-rocking steps of its ponderous feet was not an ape. "Oh holy frog," Newsie gasped, clinging to Gina again as she breathlessly panted up to him, running ahead of the colossus.

 _"Trooooooooollll!"_ Rizzo shrieked, right as the Underchicken finally managed to buck and toss Gonzo off its fleshy back. Rosie and Thatch grabbed him and pulled him off the rubble a split second before a clawed foot slammed into the pile; dazed, he wavered between them.

"Wow, he musta hit me harder than I thought," Gonzo mumbled. "Rosie, I see two of you!" He blinked at the furry hands guiding him as quickly as possible away from both the angry monster poultry and the enormous striding monster. "Whoa, cool, didn't know you could _feel_ double after a concussion..."

With the gigantic, shaggy thing, eyes big as wagon wheels and floppy jaw like a mattress, closing in at one end, and the Underchicken suddenly leaping and thudding into the center of the street, the Muppets were trapped. Everyone huddled under the insufficient awning of a dry-cleaner's. Kermit bravely gulped and stepped forward. "Piggy, run! Animal – try and distract them! There must be some way to, I don't know – pit them against one another?"

"I will stand with _vous, mon capitan!"_ Piggy insisted.

Thatch shook his fluffy head, sending a cloud of soot and dust sifting all around. "Nazza! Zagga da Undahlaggaz pezza trogga!"

Scooter shuddered, and tried to push Sara behind him, although she'd have none of it. "Uh, Chief? He says that's...that's the Underlord's _pet troll..."_

"Oh good grief," Kermit groaned. "And Sweetums is back at the theatre!"

The thing suddenly leaned down, rubbery lip like a tire-swing right in front of Kermit before the frog could leap back. Eyes widened, shining bright as the moon. "You know Sweetums?" the giant troll thundered.

Kermit recovered slowly, shaking; Piggy's instinctive grip on his arm was the only thing that had kept him from being blown twenty yards back by that fetid breath. "Y-yes! He, uh, he works with us! All of us!" Kermit said, trying to sound firmer than he felt.

Suddenly a tiny blonde head popped up from atop the troll's forest of hair. "We already _told_ ya that, ya big galoot!"

Newsie's jaw dropped. "Rhonda?"

Another rat, hefty and crew-cut, appeared next to her, peering cautiously down as those huge eyes rolled up to squint at them. "Yeah, Morty... _dese_ is da guys we was tellin' youse about!"

"Ohhh," the troll said. Its guffaw shredded the awning. "Well gee, ya shoulda _said_ somethin'! Haw, haw, haw...I almost flattened 'em! Boy, would Cousin Sweetums have given me heck about _that!"_

"C-cousin?" Rizzo gasped.

Newsie had a hard time picking his jaw up enough to speak coherently. "You're...Sweetums' Cousin Morty?"

"That's a big troll," Gina gulped.

"That's a _giant_ troll," Walter said softly, gazing up in awe.

"That's...that's twenny bucks an' a pizza ya owe me, for scarin' me half outta my fur!" Rizzo exclaimed. He glared jealously up at Rhonda and Bubba. "How come _you_ guys get to ride the wild troll, and we get stuck fightin' giant naked Colonel Sanders rejects?"

"Man, I think it heard you," Floyd said, stepping back, Janice in his arms, as the Underchicken advanced, clucking menacingly.

"Buh-gawwwk!" Camilla said, nuzzling Gonzo in great concern; it had been a while since she'd seen his eyes quite _that_ crossed. She eased him from Rosie's grip and petted his face gently with one wing. "Bawk, buk buk buk..."

"I only see one of _you,"_ Gonzo told her, and fell into her soft embrace, heedless of the whole situation in the street. "Only one..."

"Bawwwww," Camilla sighed.

Morty the Troll chuckled, and lowered his arm for the rats to run down his hand and join their friends. "Gosh, sorry about that! Sweetums told me about ya, but he didn't say how _small_ ya were!"

"No harm done," Kermit managed; Piggy braced her feet against that wind tunnel of a mouth, grimacing.

"Speak for yourself. I'll never get the stench out of my hair," she grumbled.

A vicious cackle in the street startled everyone. "Ho boy," Pepe muttered.

Dr Teeth shook his head. "Stand back, friends; I have a feeling this is about to become pugilanimous..."

"Do you think the troll can pin that thing down?" Gina wondered, keeping hold of her Newsman despite the danger of concurrent energy fields. Nothing seemed to be shaking at the moment...well, nothing _not_ attributable to the troll or the monster chicken, anyway...

With a scream of rage, the Underchicken hopped up and down, sending more tremors along the already-cracked pavement. It clucked and gestured at the Muppets. "Whatever it's saying, that can't be good," Walter guessed.

Gonzo roused himself, staring up at the fearsome plucked thing. "Uh...it isn't, unless being stomped into Muppet jelly sounds like fun. Hey," he perked, but Camilla clucked severely at him, and he slumped again. "Just saying..."

The others cringed. "Newsie, focus!" Gina cried, hugging him. "Make it go away!"

Newsie shut his eyes tight, concentrating with all his might on the mental image of the Underchicken simply winking out of existence, perhaps sucked into the doorway to heck he'd hoped to open. "If you've got some kind of superpower, now would be a _really_ good time to use it," Snookie suggested helpfully.

"Superpower? He's just a reporter," Constanza scoffed.

"Well, I'm really hoping that's just his day job..." Snookie sighed.

"Nothing's happening!" Wanda wailed. "Everybody _run!"_

"Oh, my!" Bunsen gasped, echoing the gape of his assistant subconsciously. "Your field energy must have actually _burned out_ in bringing down the hotel!"

"What?" Gina and Newsie cried together.

"Not to worry!" Honeydew yanked out a calculator and tapped it rapidly; Beaker reminded him to carry the Stantz Quotient to the next column. "If we are correct in our previous observations of the maximum measurable hertz of your psychokinetic field combination, expressed over a fixed period of time _x,_ where _q_ equals the amount of force generated and _p_ the extent of physically irreparable damage –"

"Hey Doc, cut to the chase," Rowlf barked.

Honeydew resettled his glasses, lowering the calculator. "Then you both should be able to raise a powerful enough field to open another dimension, or turn the giant bird back into a human, or other such reality-altering phenomena, in approximately..."

"How long?" Newsie demanded.

Bunsen gulped. "Two days."

The Underchicken crowed.

"Lookit da time," Rizzo exclaimed. "I t'ink I'm late for dat party!"

Pepe whirled to stare at him. "Jou was not going to a party tonight!"

"I'm goin' to whatever one _you're_ goin' to, and we're leavin' _now!"_ the rat insisted, and grabbed the prawn's tee-shirt. "Dey'll eat the bigger ones first! Move it!"

Rhonda stared. "That...is the ugliest chicken I have _ever_ seen."

Bubba scratched his chin a moment. Then, as the Underchicken advanced, still cackling and clucking in what presumably was another tirade urging his minion to attack, the rat yelled up at the baffled Mortimer: "Hey, Morty!"

The huge head swung down again, making everyone flinch, but the troll only blinked and listened attentively to the apparently unfazed rat. "Yuh, Bubba?"

"Wasn't you tellin' me just a while ago how hungry you was?"

Giant yellow eyes gazed into small, heavy-lidded rodent ones a long moment. Then the troll tilted his head to view the furious Underchicken. Understanding dawned like a Klieg light in those wheels of eyes. "Ohhhh," Morty rumbled, making the smaller Muppets cling to the larger ones for fear of being knocked to the sidewalk. "You ordered me a chicken _to go?_ Haw haw haw! Thanks!"

And with one rough palm, the troll scooped up the monstrous chicken and stuffed it whole down his throat.

The gulp which followed stunned everyone present. The satisfied belch which followed shattered every window on the block. "Not too bad...but I really like hot wings better," Morty decided. Seeing a noodle shop fronting the street, he reached through the broken window and rooted around in the kitchen area until he found a case of chili sauce bottles. Down the hatch went the entire case. "That's better. Gee, Bubba, that was awful nice of ya!"

"Don't mention it," Bubba said agreeably.

Everyone stood there, too dazed to react for a moment. And then the world descended on them.

Helicopter blades chugging overhead preceded voices yelling and a team of riot-geared police rappelling down and cornering Rosie and Thatch. A small tank rumbled up in range of the troll. From one end of the street, Health Inspector Murrow charged on a golf cart at the head of the strike force who'd come back through the Nofrisko tunnel. At the other end, a group of Whatnots with briefcases pulled up and piled out of a late-model luxury sedan. Everyone converged at once, it seemed, and the bewildered Muppets huddled together as much as they could.

"Holy A-Team, Goldie," Rhonda said. "I thought _I_ was supposed to be gathering the cavalry! Did you call these guys?"

"Er...just him," Newsie replied, nodding at Murrow.

"Who's he?"

"Special Inspector First Class Murrow, Health Department!" the Whatnot barked through a megaphone, standing in the seat of the golf cart. "Anyone associated with, employed by, or in any way connected to the Nofrisko Corporation and its various subsidiaries is in violation of Health and Safety Code pursuant to..." He began rattling off a long list of official-sounding numbers and letters.

Kermit shook his head, amazed. "Where was this guy when I was working on the Street? He's a natural."

Fozzie looked around slowly, all the shouting and bright lights and action unnerving him. "Does...does dis mean it's over?"

"It better be," Piggy grumped. "Some of us would like a bubble bath now."

"That sounds _really_ good," Sara sighed, leaning in relief against Scooter, who hugged her tight, and began softly laughing.

"...are all subject to fines and possible arrest! You!" Murrow yelled, getting Morty's attention.

"Huh?" The troll leaned down to stare at Murrow. "You talkin' ta me?"

"I don't see any _other_ public safety nuisances over thirty feet tall, so yes, I'm talking to you!"

Scooter shook his head, turning away while a harangue began against an offended giant troll. "Oh boy," he sighed. "Hope he knows what he's getting himself into."

One of the cops pointed his anti-monster taser gun at Thatch and Rosie. "Were these two part of the infestation underground?" the man demanded. Everyone looked at them, then at Kermit. Kermit looked at Gonzo, struggling, with Camilla's help, to stand without wobbling. The brothers McGurk looked at Gonzo, at one another, and then at the Muppets. Their horns drooped; their eyes plainly said they expected the worst. Tongues sagged unhappily. Kermit's gaze hardened. He cleared his throat and spoke very firmly to the police.

"No, officer...they're with us."

Stunned, then overjoyed, the monsters suddenly hugged Kermit, pounding his back gratefully until Piggy yanked them off him. "You're welcome," the frog said, pleased despite his now-sore shoulders.

Newsie shook his head in wonder. "Are we...are we really all right?"

His cousin clapped him on the back, startling him. "As weird as I feel saying this...yeah. Yeah, we are." Tentative smiles on both sides gave way to grins, then laughter.

"Are we?" Gina asked Beaker. He and Bunsen exchanged a look, a shrug, and a smile.

"Mee mee."

"Yes. But come by the lab tomorrow so we can affix your new field blocker before you both build a charge back up. Speaking of." The bald scientist beamed at two furry jellyfish staggering past. "Excuse me, might we have a word with you two? That was some _impressive_ static electricity generation you two managed!"

Pink stared at him. "Aww? Word?"

Blue clamped his mouth shut. It had been a _long_ night, and he just wanted to chew some cardboard and go hang from a clothesline. Impatiently he tugged at his friend's tentacles, ignoring the curious lab boys. Pink looked reluctantly from Blue to Bunsen, then sighed and went along with his companion, but to appease the request, called out over his antennae as he scrunched away, "Ra-di-o. Aww. Radio. Word. Yip."

Blue- and olive-felted lawyers bustled into the fray with immense self-importance. "This property is officially under the jurisdiction of the City, County, and State of New York pursuant to seizure laws due to charges being brought against the legal owners, including but not limited to Muppetnapping, fraud, and filming reality dating shows on the premises..."

"Excuse me," Murrow interrupted Blander (or Bland; both stood pouting in the fore of a bastion of Whatnots now pasting legal notices on every intact wall, light-pole, and shop-door within five hundred yards of the demolished Happy Lotus Hotel). "I'm in charge of this operation! Who are _you_ exactly?"

During the bristling, posturing, and argument which followed in the middle of the street as a baffled troll looked on from above, Newsie sighed and held his girl's hand. "Muppetnapping," he repeated. "A nap sounds wonderful."

"A hot shower and bedtime sounds better," Gina added. She smiled at the weary yellow Muppet clutching the hand of the blue girl opposite. "Would you two like to come home with us tonight? We have enough room...and spare clothes...and I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about." She beamed at Newsie and Snookie. They looked at one another, and nodded.

"You had me at 'hot water'," Snookie sighed.

"Any chance of plush PJs?" Constanza asked Gina shyly.

"Yes. Love 'em. Uh...I'm sure we can roll up the legs."

"Are you trying to make a short-Muppet jo..." Realizing she was getting defensive over nothing, Constanza backed down, embarrassed. "Sorry."

Snookie hugged her, and she gave in, sighing tiredly. "Let's go home," Gina said. Newsie smiled agreement, but as they began to slowly walk away from the scene, he looked back at Rhonda, about to ask her if she wanted to come along...but the petite rat seemed occupied. He watched that larger, Stallone-lookalike rat put his arm around her shoulders, and saw Rhonda lean into him, and suddenly Newsie realized his producer might have found someone she didn't have to be so strong around, finally.

Robin, slowly creeping forward, stared up at the massive troll. He called up to that shaggy mountain of a head, "Are you really Sweetums' cousin?"

Morty crouched, pushing the golf cart out of his way; Murrow was in too heated a discussion over legal possession of the crime scene with the Bland firm to notice. "Sure! We used to fish for squid together in the East River!"

"Really?" Growing bolder, the little frog approached closer. Kermit and Piggy watched, a little worried, but the troll placed his hands down as gently as their own resident troll did around the boy. "Did you catch anything?"

Morty rumbled a laugh that wobbled the nearest streetlamp pole. "Well, a submarine once, but they made us throw it back!"

Rizzo elbowed Pepe. "Are you t'inkin' what I'm t'inkin', buddy?"

Pepe frowned. "Haven't we done that joke already, amigo?"

Rizzo planted his fists on his ample waist. "I am t'inkin', with _dis_ guy, we could rake in da biggest Halloween haul _evah!"_

Pepe considered it. "But will there be beautiful womens, okay?"

Gonzo looked around at the theatre troupe, uncertain of his reception. "Uh...so...fun night, huh guys?"

Groans and head-shaking ensued. Scooter put out a hand and a smile. "Welcome back, Gonzo."

The Whatever grinned, and admitted, "You know, great as all of that was...they just don't understand me like you guys do."

"Like, _nobody_ understands you, Gonzo."

"Okay...it still sounded better than 'Hey, can I come back and try that rabid-weasel juggling thing finally?'" Gonzo sighed.

Sam the Eagle scowled and crossed his wings. "I see no lessons have been learned _here."_ He strode over to the lawyers. "Gentlemen! While I applaud your swift prosecution of the miscreants who are responsible for this _atrocity,_ I feel I _must_ point out that there are _more_ citations which ought to be written out, for lewd display of _naked_ chickenskin, destruction of an historical site, and overall _naughtiness..."_

Scooter tried to hold in a laugh, but then saw a smile quirking at the edge of his boss' wide green mouth, and a broad one already lifting a bear's welcoming face. By mutual and simultaneous assent, the gathered Muppets swarmed Gonzo, shaking hands, hugging, and patting him on the back. "Oo, ow, that smarts," Gonzo said.

"Uh, sorry."

"No, it's good! Could you do it more?"

The Newsman looked around at them all in a state of weary wonder: the biggest troll he'd ever seen lumbering off with Rizzo and a reluctant Pepe on his shoulders, with Robin securing permission from his uncle before hopping aboard as well to catch up on the trick-or-treating he'd missed earlier tonight; the daredevil cuddling his chicken as the other Muppets slowly dispersed in clumps and friendly groups to head home; the lawyers arguing with the SWAT officers arguing with the health inspector in a three-way contest (four, but everyone seemed to be ignoring Sam); the monster brothers quietly stealing away in the wake of Animal yelling and jerking his chain down the street, Floyd and the Mayhem in pursuit. Newsie turned to his cousin, the Whatnot girl obviously with him, and Newsie's own beloved, who was gazing down at him through a curtain of mussed, dusty hair, and still looked beautiful to him. "Let's go home," he said.

So they all did.


	65. Chapter 54-1

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR (part one). _In which jokes are told at a funeral; and the (game) shows must go on._

Our Lady of Muppaphones Church was larger and more ornate than the Newsman had expected. Located in a quiet, Norman-Rockwellesque section of Jersey City, either the church had more parishioners than Newsie would have expected, given the oddly fluffy exterior, or else this many people had come specifically to see Ethel Muppman off to her final rest. He looked around once more, his gaze passing over his stepcousins Fred and Mary and their spouses, lingering a moment on the bored children piled into the same pew, and venturing on to the mingled Whatnots, cute furry animals, and sombre humans filling the large chapel to capacity. Gina squeezed his hand, and Newsie glanced at her, nodding to show her he was all right. On his other side, Chester – _Snookie, he prefers to be called Snookie; what an odd nickname. Wonder if he enjoys billiards?—_ sighed deeply and pursed his lips.

"I had no idea Auntie Ethel was so popular," Snookie muttered.

On _his_ other side, Constanza shifted around uncomfortably on the worn wooden seat, her legs dangling above the floor. "It's good to see so many of the nonfelted appreciated her. She must've been a good woman, and a credit to Muppethood," Constanza offered, then growled under her breath, "Although I don't get why she'd choose a church that doesn't even have Muppet-friendly seating..."

Snookie noticed someone just now coming into the aisle and looking around in vain for an empty seat, then taking up a standing position along the side. The ex-show host nudged his cousin. "Hey. Check it out. That's Uncle Milquey."

"Who?"

"From Cheddarbreathe Hollow. Aunt Wilhelmina's brother. I think he's a lawyer."

Newsie grimaced. "Not more lawyers!" Just this morning, he'd had to hand the phone to Gina to explain to the stuffily sonorous Bland (he thought; wait. Maybe it was Blander...) that Newsie couldn't possibly come to the law office today to discuss terms of his suit against KRAK. Even the "recent developments concerning the city's suit against Nofrisko and its subsidiaries of which KRAK was a member and therefore willing to make concessions in order to avoid total dissolution by the Benson's Board for Beneficent Businesses" had to bow to the more pressing engagement of Ethel's memorial and the reading of the will. Bland had expressed condolences but nattered on in legalese until Gina hung up on him.

Snookie grinned. The hot pizza, warm bath, and a night spent on the couch opposite Constanza had done wonders for his health; his felt practically glowed yellow-gold, and his sleek hair was once again shiny. Of course, the fact that the entire night hadn't been spent on the _opposite_ end of the couch from his new love might also have something to do with his more cheerful demeanor despite the solemn surroundings. "Nah, not like that. He does family law. Probably here for Ethel's will."

Newsie sighed. "That seems like a ridiculous formality. I'm sure whatever she had left from Uncle Joe has been spent on her care the last couple of decades." He glanced again at his nonfelted relations. "It's nice to see...see family again, though."

Snookie followed his gaze. "Yeah. What's up with them, anyway? I got a distinctly unfriendly vibe off that Fred guy when we shook hands."

"What'd you expect from _them?"_ Constanza snorted.

Snookie turned to her with a frown. "Look, they may not be Muppets, but you can't choose your relations, all right? Isn't there anyone in your family that stands out the same way?"

Constanza opened her mouth to object, then blushed. "Uh...penguins."

Snookie challenged her. "Excuse me? What was that, dear?"

She glared at him. "One of my cousins married a penguin, okay? We...we don't talk about her."

Snookie grinned. Gina interrupted them. "You guys...is that the minister?"

All eyes turned to the raised platform at the front of the church, where a man with a furry orange mitre atop his head stepped behind the lectern and waited for silence. The organ softly playing "Nearer My Frog to Thee" drew to a quiet close. "Funky hat," Snookie commented.

"That's not a hat," Newsie said as the mitre sat up and blinked at all the people.

"Get on with it already," the Muppaphone atop the minister grouched. "We gotta wedding to perform at eleven!"

The minister, grandly ignoring the griping fluffball sitting on his head, opened the book on the lectern. "Ahem. _When I have fears that I may cease to be, before the fluff has fallen from my frame; before high-piléd sweaters, in mimicry, hold like marshmallows the new-spilled stain..."_

"What the heck chapter and verse is that?" Gina whispered, baffled.

A woman in the pew behind them leaned forward to hiss, "It's from the _Book of Common Muppaphonics. Shhh!"_

Gina exchanged a querying look with Newsie. Both shrugged, and sat still while the rest of the strange verse was solemnly intoned. After the religious proceedings had finally dragged to a close (with numerous interruptions from the Muppaphone-hat, which the congregation all seemed to regard as perfectly proper), the minister asked for any family who wished to say a few words to come up and do so. Gina nudged Newsie, but he shook his head, abashed; most of his memories of Ethel were from his childhood. What could he say about a woman he'd barely known the last couple of decades? Fred was already on his feet and making his way onto the dais.

"Ethel Blyer married my grandfather, Joe Muppman. I was a boy when she came into my family's life. I admit I was wary at first; after all, she was short, and...and different," Fred began in a low, strong voice. Apprehensive murmurs traveled around the church, but Fred continued: "But I soon discovered that my new gran was one of the sweetest, most cheerful and supportive people in the world. She was always baking cookies for the whole neighborhood; she invited us up to her lake house every summer, and those were some of the best years of my life...and she never said a word against the people who remained so prejudiced they snubbed her, just because she was a Muppet."

Newsie blinked, stunned. Was that really _Fred_ up there? He didn't realize he'd whispered the thought aloud until Snookie muttered in reply, "Maybe it's a pod people."

Newsie snorted. Gina stifled a giggle. Fred went on, "So I just wanted to say that, whatever our differences through the years...and despite the cruel dementia which took her reason toward the end...I loved my gran, and I always will. No matter what anyone thinks." He cast a glare around the room as if daring anyone to say a word against Ethel. Mary patted her hands lightly in soft applause. A few people murmured, "Hear, hear," and "Yeah, bro."

As Fred resumed his seat, Gina suddenly pinched her Muppet reporter in a sensitive spot. He jerked to his feet, startled and only barely silencing a yelp. The minister nodded at him, and the irascible Muppaphone grumbled, "Well, come on up here then, we ain't got all day." Embarrassed, everyone's eyes upon him, Newsie realized he had little choice now, but as he headed for the front of the church, he grabbed a snickering Snookie's tie.

"Fine – but you're coming too."

Snookie shrugged, and together they climbed up to the podium next to the small urn holding Ethel Blyer Muppman's earthly remains. Newsie was a bit unnerved to realize the urn was fuzzy...and pink, with a cute bow tied around the top. _Ethel must've picked that herself; looks like her,_ he thought, then tried to compose himself. Snookie cleared his throat and grabbed the mic like a born showman. "So, here we all are, and here you are, Aunt Ethel...and looking as cheerful as ever!"

Dead silence filled the church. Somewhere in the back, a cricket chirped once.

Newsie took the mic from his cousin. "Er...what Snookie means is...Ethel was always so positive, with such a wonderful sense of humor! I'm sure she would have loved this whole ceremony."

More silence. People stared at Newsie in puzzlement.

Snookie took back the mic. "Heh heh heh, what my way-too-politic cousin here means is: Ethel was about as fuzzy as you can be – especially these last few years, from what I hear. Now, I hadn't seen her in twenty years, but I'm told that right up to the end, she cherished small wonders and laughed every day, and that's not a bad thing no matter _what_ your diminished mental capacity!"

Gina was now covering her face with both hands. Her shoulders shook in silent mirth. The churchgoers began to mutter in displeasure.

Newsie, feeling his cheeks burning, grabbed the mic away. "You know what? I'm sad Ethel's gone. I am! But...but _look_ at all of you!" The crowd stared at him, but Newsie, angered, bulled on. "She was always quick to laugh, even at herself, and she – she taught me that it was okay _not_ to be serious all the time! Even when other people mock you or – or don't take you seriously when you want to be...even then...it helps to keep a sense of humor." He fell silent, struggling with emotion. He jumped when Snookie clapped his back.

"Frog yes," Snookie stated firmly. He spotted a communion chalice sitting out on a side table, apparently left out from a prior service or waiting for the next one. He lifted it up, and shouted, "To Ethel!"

A number of the audience echoed, "To Ethel!"

"Now that's more like it," the Muppaphone agreed. "Pass that thing! I'm parched!"

"You're stuffed already," the minister objected, but he took the chalice after Snookie had wet his tongue with the overly-sweet wine inside, and held it aloft over the urn. "To Ethel, one of the few people who truly lived the Fluffy Rule in all she did."

Even the hesitant in the congregation applauded that, and Snookie and Newsie tromped back to their pew feeling less disapproved-of. Gina hugged Newsie as he slid next to her again. "That was well said, sweetie," she murmured, kissing him.

"I shouldn't have—"

"Ah, these yokels needed a dose of good sarcasm," Snookie opined, settling one arm around Constanza. "The Ethel _I_ remember would've told 'em all to lighten up, and then offered 'em snickerdoodles."

Unsure if he'd just ostracized himself further from his family, Newsie snuck a quick look around. Mary was beaming, and even Fred seemed mollified. Along the wall, the Whatnot Snookie had identified as Uncle Milquey was waiting attentively for the service to finish, but he seemed to feel eyes upon him and turned his head. Seeing the Newsman, he nodded once, and Newsie relaxed a bit. More people, whether felted or not, rose and shared memories of their time with Ethel, but most of them were happy stories or jokes; the entire mood of the church seemed to have lifted. When at last the minister declared the final hymn should be played, Newsie was startled to recognize the strains of "C'mon Get Happy" wheezing through the old organ.

"Oh my," one of the old ladies sitting behind him gasped, blotting her eyes with a tissue. "This song always makes me cry!"

"Or gag," Snookie muttered before being silenced by a kiss from his blue-and-pink girl.

"Move it, move it, turn those flowers around," the Muppaphone hat snapped at some ushers slowly swiveling the black bouquets at the front of the altar around to show white carnations and roses instead. "The weddin' party's already waiting in the refectory!"

The nicely-suited Whatnot stopped Snookie and Newsie as the crowd filed out behind the urn, carried reverently by Fred's daughter. "Pardon me. Are you Chester Blyer and Aloysius Crimp?" the short man asked, mispronouncing Newsie's given name.

It was a common enough mistake, and Newsie simply offered his hand. "I go by Newsman."

"Uncle Milquey, how ya been?" Snookie asked, shaking the Whatnot's hand as well.

"Fine...as anyone in the family who's actually kept in touch would know," the Whatnot said, though his tone was mild. "Both of you, please come with me. I've arranged for privacy in one of the church offices."

"Hey, little hard to keep in touch when you're being held prisoner by crazed Frackles," Snookie grumbled. He looked at Constanza. "Mind if my squeeze here joins us?"

Milquetoast frowned. "I'm sorry. Nice to meet you, Miss, but this is a family matter."

"Maybe I _am_ family," Constanza snapped, clutching Snookie's arm tighter.

"Gina goes where I go," Newsie added. Snookie cast an incredulous look at Constanza.

She shrugged, blushing. "What? I'm thinking about it...do you have a problem with that?"

"I. Uh." For once, the game show host seemed wordless.

Constanza smirked. "Good."

The lawyer frowned and shook his head, but after a moment's consideration shrugged and beckoned them through a door off the nave. "Well, I suppose Ethel wouldn't mind, seeing as how her own marriage was rather a...rather a _blended_ one." He peered after Fred and Mary and their families. "Could someone call back her grandkids? They're named as well, and it would be more proper to inform everyone at the same time."

"Inform us of what?" Newsie wondered. Suddenly he had a nightmarish vision of being asked to care for Ethel's dried, wilted pet cabbage in perpetuity; her insistence on dressing it in frilly frocks and carrying it everywhere had been the first serious indication years ago that the old woman might have lost a few screws.

Milquetoast appeared grave, and didn't answer directly. "Just ask them to join us, please."

Gina squeezed Newsie's shoulder. "I'll go get them, sweetie. You go ahead."

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

Gina smiled...a little _too_ nicely. "Absolutely. I think it's time I introduced myself properly to your relations."

Constanza liked that thought, and moved to go with her, but Snookie held her arm firmly. "Hey! I want to go say hi too!"

"One of you is an ambush," Snookie argued. "Two is an invasion force. Come on. Let's go hear how many tea cozies I inherited."

The Newsman sighed, watching his beloved hurry after the departing crowd, half proud of her and half mortified. Even after this probable waste of time, he still had to get in touch with Bland and Blander to see if they'd made any progress in restoring his job, or at least his reputation as an employable journalist. As he followed his cousin and the girl now protesting loudly that as a liberated Muppet she had no interest in tea cozies, petticoats, or elevated shoes, Newsie reflected: _As weird as October was, I hope November turns out better...or at least calmer._

The site was fenced off and still marked with biohazard caution tape, but Gonzo slipped easily past the security bear arguing with a couple of city inspectors about the legitimacy of their ID badges. He held Camilla's wing gently as he guided her over the rubble to the cracked stone steps leading down, the only part of the hotel which had survived the combined forces of the Underchicken and a psychokinetic mass spectrum catastrophic event. "I'm sorry you didn't get to meet 'em last night, but trust me, they're really great guys...just don't say anything about their back fur; it's kind of embarrassing, I think." When Camilla cawped softly in confusion, Gonzo leaned closer to whisper, "It's _way too short."_ The chicken clucked her comprehension, and carefully they descended.

Banging, sawing, and other construction sounds ricocheted through the tunnels as collapsed passageways were either shored up or walled over. Gonzo looked curiously around; the studios which had sustained the least damage appeared to be running again. He peeked around the open doorframe of a game-show studio and saw what looked like a knitting show: a terribly fat bat in a poncho was demonstrating how to do a two-clawed purl to make Christmas stockings out of red-and-green-dyed, thick ropes of silk. Suddenly a giant orange spider face thrust out of the studio. "Hey Pew, you bring cookies?"

Camilla bawked and clutched Gonzo; Gonzo froze, but the spider saw who it was and jerked back, then turned red in the mandibles. "Oh. Huh huh. Is Great One! Sorry, Great One."

"Uh...hi," Gonzo murmured, petting his chicken reassuringly. "See, sweetie? They all love me down here."

"Awww," the spider chuckled, dragging three feet bashfully through the rock floor and gouging new tracks in it.

"Are you guys filming again already?" Gonzo asked. "I thought the FCC, the FBI, DHS, and MMB shut you down for good!" Camilla clucked a question. "Monster Mistreatment Bureau," Gonzo explained.

Steve the Spider shrugged. "Got no transmitter no more. Was tasty though." He beamed, gesturing at the fussy bat beckoning a camerafrackle in for a close-up of the stitch held on two elongated wing-claws like knitting needles. "Got show-how show. Clarence made me booties." Proudly he held up his two front legs; adorably knitted and pompom-tufted covers made the deadly striking claws almost festive.

Gonzo looked past the spider; the whole studio was filled with the ropy, sticky threads that the bat was determinedly trying to incorporate into Christmas stockings and a matching scarf-and-mitten set. Instead of all the fancy electronics Gonzo had seen before in many of these rooms, the only other occupant was the lone green Frackle holding a small videocamera to its beady eyes. "But if you got banned from broadcasting, how are you—"

"Web TV," Steve explained. Some of his eyes shifted to Camilla. "Ooh. You bring cookie?"

"Bawwwwk!"

"Gotta go," Gonzo said, hustling his chickie down the hall.

Lights flickered overhead; startled, Gonzo looked up to see nary a glowworm. Instead, daylight-spectrum bulbs were being screwed into new fixtures along the formerly gloomy passageways. A giant roach, spooked by the sudden illumination of its hiding-place in a wall niche, skittered away and ran antennae-first into a furry purple hand. It never even had the chance to squeak before being stuffed into a mouth already so full of haphazard teeth that chewing was problematic. Three contented eyes lifted and saw the Whatever and the chicken. "Gazza!"

"Thatch! Hey!" The two odd-looking creatures slapped one another's backs. "Where's Rosie?"

Thatch McGurk hooked a claw over his shoulder. "Ah, Ragga ahvahzeega dah nooza eleggabba jennehrazza."

"New electrical generator? I didn't know you guys were electricians," Gonzo said. He perked. "Say, any chance Rosie would want to help me out back at the theatre? I had a dream for this _fantastic_ new act involving Tesla coils and tapioca..." Camilla nudged him, clucking, and Gonzo shook himself. "Ah, never mind. I have some...family business I gotta tend to first."

Camilla sighed happily, nuzzling him with her beak, and Gonzo giggled. "Camilla! Not _here..."_

Thatch led the way to the large room which had formerly been the studio for _Break a Leg!_ The stage platform still stood – re-braced by a number of ramshackle two-by-fours and one very displeased shark – but instead of the reality-contest-show's set, a giant plastic wheel had been erected center stage, with a tangle of cables and wires snaking from it. The benches down front were filled with an assortment of small furry animals, giant slugs munching popcorn from huge buttered buckets, and a few strange creatures such as a winged kitten purring in the front row. Thatch called out as they walked toward the platform, "Razza! Morga powah!"

"Ooh, hurry, the show's starting again!" one of the horned jackrabbits called out, and a creature who seemed to be half Whatnot and half monster stopped chatting with a skinny goblin girl and rejoined the small audience.

"Oh, jolly good. I love it when they make the sparks fly, especially," the creature enthused, curling his wings up so he wouldn't block the view for his fellow former prisoners. The spectators hid the bottom of the wheel from Gonzo's sight, however, until he climbed the steps behind Thatch and saw what was making it spin.

Rosie McGurk spotted Gonzo, dropped the clipboard he'd held and bounded over to hug his friend, and then to politely drool on the wing of the chicken. "Gazza! Tankah fah nooga hama!"

"De nada," Gonzo replied broadly, and at Rosie's befuddled expression, added in a knowledgeable undertone, "French." Rosie grinned. Gonzo spread his arms in wonder. "Wow, Rosie, when you said this morning you wanted to come back here and do some cleaning up, I never realized you meant this!"

The pink-furred monster beamed, all thirty teeth sticking out at every angle. Camilla warily stepped a little more behind her daredevil, but the monster only proceeded to proudly explain the new system he and his brother had rigged up to supply the power needs of this new, free monster community just beginning to put out feelers to the civilized world...as well as tentacles and creepy little legs. "Vegabba dah vegga inna wheeba..."

"Uh huh," Gonzo nodded at the panting creature standing in the middle of the now-still giant hamster wheel.

Rosie pointed out cables and switches and relays still being fixed into place by a crew of cheerful Frackles and a millipede wearing a dozen multitools on a canvas belt. "Powagg gaffa aaaaaarr deh undahgrabba," Rosie bragged. He brightened, turning to Camilla. "Wabba lygga demastragga?"

"Bawk?"

"Sure we'd like a demonstration!" Gonzo agreed. "Crank this baby up and let's see what she'll do!"

"Excuse me? _She?_ Is my fur _that_ long?" protested the occupant of the wheel, brushing his long spiky whiskers back from his snout and readjusting the lab goggles over his beady eyes.

"Welease dah bunneh!" Rosie crowed. A panel in the short wall behind the possumized Van Neuter slid open, and a gray-green-furred monster with floppy bunny ears strapped over his horns poked his head through.

"Hi!" Carl barked.

Van Neuter started in fear – and then started running. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Mercy! Haaaaaaalllp!"

Gonzo and Camilla watched a minute as the vet ran flat-out, making the wheel spin so fast sparks shot from the gears and traveled along the cables. A cheer went up from the audience, and Rosie bowed to the scattered applause. Carl swiped repeatedly at the doctor from his window, snagging the hem of the tattered lab coat once, which only made Van Neuter shriek and run faster. "Neat," Gonzo observed, "but what happens when it runs down?"

Carl, soon bored with the prey he couldn't quite catch, popped out of the window and strolled offstage. "Eh, ta heck with this. Anyone wanna pumpkin sundae? There's lots left over from the jack-o'lantern smash!" he called out as he left, and a few of the crowd went with him. Van Neuter slowed, gasping, about to collapse, but Rosie merely put his fingers between his foremost teeth and whistled.

"You look _delicious!"_ Gorgon Heap cried, trying to force his bulk through the tiny window. Van Neuter let out a girlish scream and renewed his frantic pounding of feet. The wheel spun so fast Gonzo could feel heat radiating from it. A few feet away, a large white furry caterpillar purred and snuggled into a pet bed with an umbrella drink and an iBlob playing Jimmy Buffett tunes, basking in the warmth.

"Nabba probba," Rosie said. He put an arm around Gonzo's shoulders. "Wagga seeba wiyah-an-kabba-roog?"

Gonzo's eyes widened. "The large wire and cable room? _Cool!_ Lead on, buddy!" He traipsed behind the monster, hugging Camilla as they went. "Camilla! They have a whole room just for storing wire! Can you believe it? The possibilities are mind-boggling!"

The chicken hugged him back, and obediently went along with the tour. Some things, she knew, one simply couldn't change...and her Gonzo finding new and daring act inspiration in the most ordinary objects was one of them. At least he was sharing them with _her._ She'd let him natter on about this silliness an hour more, but then, by frog, she was dragging him home. There was a nest which needed rebuilding.

On the platform, Van Neuter heaved for air, and croaked from the whirling wheel, "Hey! Can I stop yet? I'm getting really dizzy...I think I may be about to...blarrrgghh..."

The large yellow eyes of the Heap blazed in anticipation. "Oh, goody! It makes its own gravy!"


	66. Chapter 54-2

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR (part two). _In which there is a will, and a way._

A very flabbergasted group of Muppets and humans emerged from the church office an hour after going in. Goodbyes were said, promises to see one another over the upcoming holidays exchanged, and at last people dispersed, still mulling over what Ethel's will had revealed. Newsie, Gina, Snookie and Constanza stood uncertainly in the small hallway after the others had gone, silent a few minutes. Constanza asked to borrow Gina's cell phone, and once given it, began tapping through a web search. Finally Gina ventured, "So...feel like taking a weekend off at the lake?"

Newsie laughed incredulously. "I...I can't believe it! I thought the property had been sold years ago...when Milquetoast brought it up, I was sure it would go to Fred or Mary..."

Snookie shook his head. "Hey, at least you have something _worth_ something instead of a china cabinet full of disgustingly cute figurines." He sighed, and smiled. "Ah, no big deal. I still love the old dear." Snookie had been obviously less than thrilled with his bequest of Ethel's collection of Disastrous Moments china.

"Why don't you two come with us? We could make a vacation of it; I'm sure you both could use some time to ease back into the world," Gina said.

Newsie opened the sealed envelope Milquetoast had given him containing the deed and other paperwork pertinent to the lakeside cabin in the Adirondacks, the same cabin where he'd spent so many wondrous summers, so very long ago. His face began to wrinkle and scrunch as he slowly flipped through the papers. Gina didn't notice at first, intent on trying to offer Snookie and his girl some solace for having been given the worst end of the deal; Fred and Mary's families had left the church with account information for scholarship trusts for their children and the few thousand dollars remaining in Ethel's bank account, and were no doubt already happily thinking up ways to spend it. Newsie was surprised by his gift of the cabin, but Snookie seemed to have taken the shafting with the resignation born of long suffering. "Maybe you two could live there awhile, even, until you decide where you want to be?" Gina suggested, knowing her generous Muppet wouldn't object in the least.

"I don't think that will be possible," Newsie muttered, still turning page after page of a dossier.

Constanza poked a glum Snookie. "Hey, Sunshine Man...you are not gonna frogging believe this..."

Gina turned to Newsie, startled. "You – you don't want them to stay at the cabin? But Newsie...our apartment is a little small for four people!"

Gloomily Newsie displayed the large glossy photograph he'd been looking at. "It, uh...looks less cheerful than I remember it." They stared at the photo, taken for insurance purposes just two days ago. A decrepit, dirty, shabby hunk of ancient logs which looked to be barely standing around its crumbling stone chimney huddled atop a hill; the saplings Newsie recalled Uncle Joe planting decades ago were now untrimmed trees with thick, weedy underbrush crowding up to the walls of the cabin. The whole scene appeared about as cheerful as a beheading.

"Oh," Gina sighed. "Oh, Newsie...I'm sorry."

He continued to gaze at it, trying to overlay the image in his memory on this bleak reality. "It...it used to be my favorite place," he said quietly. "Aunt Ethel was always baking cookies, or slicing watermelon for us; and Uncle Joe would take us to the lake for fishing lessons...even though I was terrible at it, he was always kind. And at night, I'd fall asleep listening to the crickets, tucked under a camp blanket in my own little bunk beneath a window, and smell the pine trees..."

"It _was_ all that," Snookie agreed. "Looks all used up now, though...worn down and useless..." His expression, for a moment, turned so sorrowful that Gina suspected he wasn't just referring to the cabin, but then Constanza impatiently elbowed him.

"Never mind that! We can buy our _own_ frogging cabin!"

The Muppaphone hat, gliding by atop its minister, scowled. "Hey! _Language!"_

"With what?" Snookie demanded. "Are you actually the tin-can-heiress of Central Park who's run away from her little-rich-girl lifestyle to be a beatnik hipster? I should _be_ so lucky!"

"What the heck's a beatnik? No, look, you numbfoam! Look what I found!" Constanza shoved Gina's phone almost against Snookie's wide, round nose.

He frowned. "Disastrous Moments Figurines, yeah, that's them. Ethel had the _entire_ collection, apparently. I remember some of 'em she had on a shelf in her house when my mom would drag me for a visit. I got busted trying to break the ugliest one and had to pretend to _like_ them; I'm sure that's why the old ba—I mean, sweet old Auntie – left them to me." He shuddered at the sight of a tiny digital picture of the whole series of figurines depicting small furry animals in terrible circumstances. The _Muffy Flees the Triangle Factory Fire_ tableau had been his especial least-favorite.

Constanza smacked the top of Snookie's head; miffed, he smoothed down his hair again and glared at her. "Hey! _Why_ do people keep assuming I like it rough?"

"You're an idiot," Constanza snapped, shoving the phone at him again as Newsie and Gina watched, bemused. "Did you even _look_ at the caption?"

Irritated, Snookie leaned closer to the screen. His eyes widened. "'Extremely Rare Figurine Collection Sells at Sotheby's for $2.4 Million'?"

Constanza grabbed her Muppet and smooched him for all she was worth...or for all _he_ was now worth. "Just think what we could do with that!" she crowed ecstatically. "Muppet Legal Defense Fund! Anti-Muppaphobia Foundation! A Muppet Political Action Committee!"

Snookie shook his head, dazed. "To heck with that...how about starting with a Muppet cruise?"

"Cruises destroy coral reefs!"

Snookie growled. "Then you will just have to _find_ one that doesn't – or we'll buy our own boat, hire a crew, and sail the Caribbean all winter! I want some _sun_ for once, and by frog, you can come _with_ me or go back to your Occupy camp in the rain!" he proclaimed, and when Constanza gasped and stared at him, he grabbed her and pulled her into a fierce kiss. All her resistance melted, and very soon wet happy murmurs came from the wrapped bundle of felt and plaid.

"Ahem," Newsie gulped, politely looking away. "Well. So."

"So...I think they'll work this out without us," Gina suggested, smiling.

"Um. Erm. Uh...we're going to go back to the theatre for a while, but you're welcome to join us for dinner later at the apartment," Newsie said loudly, still not looking at the fearsome smooch going on against the wall of the church hallway.

The interlocked couple gave no sign that they heard. When arms and legs began sticking out of the embrace at odd angles, Gina took her phone back with some difficulty, took Newsie by the shoulder and steered him toward the exit. "Come on."

"But I'm not sure they heard—"

"They'll be fine."

They caught the next train back to the city, no longer worried about Pesties in the tunnels. Gina squeezed Newsie's hand. "I'm really sorry your inheritance is...is in such sad shape, sweetie. Maybe we could save up a little, and get some of our carpenter friends to help, and start fixing it up?"

"Carpenters? I don't know any, except your friend Scott."

"What about that guy who cleans up at your theatre? What's his name – Beau?"

Newsie shivered once all over. "Uh, _no._ I'd like whatever's actually left standing to remain that way."

Gina took the dossier from him, and slowly leafed through the photos. "You know, it's a shame Halloween is over. As spooky as this place looks now, it would've been a _fantastic_ place for a party!"

An idea dawning, Newsie took one of the pictures, gazing at it hopefully. "Maybe...maybe it could still be. Sort of."

As they walked up the loading dock stairs to the Muppet Theatre, Kermit was yelling and waving his froggy hands so vehemently that the pair of identically-dressed Whatnots backing uneasily out of the door couldn't get a word in edgewise. "But –" one began.

"No! _N-O NO!_ What part of that do you not understand!" Kermit shrieked. Newsie paused, grabbing Gina's arm so she'd hang back a safe distance as well; he'd learned long ago that it wasn't wise to confront his boss when in frantic fuming mode. "If it hadn't been for your idiotic and _completely unnecessary_ charity walk, we'd never have wound up in such trouble to begin with!"

"If you'd just –" the other Whatnot tried.

Kermit advanced, his voice cracking as he croaked at the top of his airsac: "And now you idiots have the absolute _nerve_ to ask _us_ for a contribution?! No! Out! OUT! _OUT!"_ One very steamed frog let out a strangled cry of rage, and slammed the backstage door in the Whatnots' faces.

A pause hung in the air as the dust around the back door sifted down the alley in a soft cool breeze. Bland lifted a hesitant finger. "Would you at least consider signing the petition, then?" he called.

Somewhere in the depths of the theatre, another door slammed, and something crashed.

The lawyers turned, resigned, and saw the Newsman. Both immediately lifted their heads, though their neutral expressions remained unchanged. "Ah! Newsman! So sorry to hear of your aunt's passing," Blander offered.

"Thank you."

"We have excellent news for you," Bland said. "Your suit has been settled."

"That fast?" Gina asked.

The lawyers looked smug. "Well, given the scandal facing _all_ of the subsidiaries of the now-defunct MMN..."

"Not to mention the charges the city is bringing against them..."

"Coupled with _our_ dogged reputation," Blander added proudly.

"Your station has agreed to rescind all disciplinary action against you, and expunge any such allegations of wrongdoing from your employment record..."

"While increasing your salary by ten per cent..."

"And immediately reinstating you and your, ah, rodentia colleague."

"Wow," Gina muttered, rolling her eyes. "A whole ten per cent."

"We bargained them up from eight," Bland said.

Newsie stammered, "Er...ah...well...well this is good! Wonderful!" He fumbled for his phone, forgetting he'd left it at home again this morning. "I should call Rhonda!"

Gina smiled and bent to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Okay. I'll go find the Dynamic Lab Duo and see if their little toy is ready for me."

Newsie shook the lawyers' hands. "Thank you, Mr Bland, Mr Blander. This means a lot to me, to have a place in front of a microphone again!"

"I'm Bland," the one Newsie had addressed as Blander protested. Newsie drew back, embarrassed.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I –"

"No you're not," the other Whatnot said gruffly, _"I_ am!"

Blander considered it a moment, startled, then conceded. "You're right; sorry..."

Newsie stared at them as they sauntered off, arguing over which of them was wearing brown and which had the _green_ felt. "Even _they_ can't tell?" he wondered aloud.

Gina giggled. "Come on. Here, use my phone, tell your producer you two are back in business. I'm going to dare a visit to the dark underbelly of the theatre, where chemicals are mixed and Muppets are set on fire."

Newsie shook his head. "Thank you, but I have something I need to do first; I need to go find Kermit and...hmm. Er. Maybe it would be better to talk to Scooter."

Gina opened the door cautiously, and saw a flock of chickens fussily gathering up their feathers after being jostled from the fly rail by one angry frog storming past and making Beau jump back and set loose the brakes for several fly-lines. "Maybe that's a better idea. Meet back here in a few?"

Newsie agreed, and went seeking the gofer while Gina trotted down the steps to the basement, where even now a small explosion and a puff of purple smoke, followed by the annoyed griping of several Muppets, indicated Beaker and Bunsen were hard at work. Just as the backstage door swung shut again, Bland and Blander turned around.

"What about doing a commercial for our new nonprofit venture, then, speaking out on behalf of wronged Muppaphones worldwide?" Blander yelled. The lawyers stared hopefully at the silent door, not noticing an orange-flamenco-shirt-clad Muppet with a large mallet tiptoeing up behind them.

Newsie followed the sounds of carnage, knowing that where Kermit had raged, Scooter would be somewhere nearby to set things right. Probably five or six steps behind the frog, for safety's sake. Although Miss Piggy had the widest personal-space zone where other cast members were concerned, a frog in full dudgeon was an awesome sight, and not one to be regarded lightly by anyone valuing their eardrums. Spotting the flash of a green satin jacket, Newsie increased his pace, and soon caught up with Scooter as the gofer checked an inventory of banana peels against the shipping order. "Scooter, I, uh, I heard you and Kermit had some trouble finding a shooting location for the new film," Newsie began hesitantly.

Scooter didn't look up from his clipboard. "Twenty-two, twenty-three...uh, yeah, Newsie. Don't worry; we won't ask you to go on location for your bit. I'm pretty sure that scene is all studio work. Twenty-four...dang it, why is there a mango peel in here?"

The Newsman cleared his throat, feeling silly now that it actually came to explaining his idea; after all, he was only a journalist! Scooter and Kermit were the real production masters here; heck, even Fozzie probably had more movie-making experience than Newsie. "Well, er, I recently, that is..."

Scooter glanced at him, irritated with the interruption, the mango peel, and the visit by those idiot lawyers which had just ruffled the feathers (or collar) of everyone in the theatre. "Look, Newsie, you don't _have_ to be in it if you'd rather not. I know you have that whole lawsuit going on and you're pretty tied up. It's fine. I'll tell Kermit, okay?"

Abashed, Newsie fell back a step, then hurried after Scooter as he strode over to the desk to make some notes. "Um. Actually, that, er...that's been solved. I'm back at KRAK, probably starting tonight."

"Hey, good for you." Scooter gave him a slap on the shoulder, but then muttered as he scribbled, "Note to Happy Fruitie Shipping Co: _a banana does not have a red peel..."_

The Newsman, nonplused, waited a moment, but when Scooter continued on his errands, trotted after him again. "Scooter, ahem, it's just that I..."

Scooter whirled, grasping the plaid sleeves with all the exasperated reassurance he could manage. "Look, Newsie, honestly, it's fine! Kermit's feelings won't be hurt if you want to drop out of the—"

"I found you a location," Newsie barked out, reverting to his news-delivery persona to get the information across.

Scooter stopped. "You wha?"

"I mean, that is, if it's...if you think it's suitable," Newsie gulped. He quickly fished out one of the photos of the desolate, almost-falling-down cabin, surrounded by a small forest of trees in full autumn blaze. "I...I just inherited it. You can film there for free if you want." He waited, blinking, wondering what the heck he'd been thinking. _Just because it looks scary to me doesn't mean anyone else will be impressed! Oh, well, now he thinks you're an idiot, but what else is new...practically everyone..._

His disappointed thoughts were cut short by Scooter clapping his shoulders excitedly. "You – you _inherited_ this place? Where is it? It's perfect! Newsie, this is _perfect! Hey!_ Hey guys! Look what we just got!" Curious Muppets began to gather as Newsie felt a happy blush starting in his face. Scooter held the photo high and flapped it. "We have a _location!_ We can start filming this week!"

Castmates and crew crowded around, exclaiming and chirping, bawking, or bleating. Scooter yelled upstairs, "Hey Chief! Chief!"

Miss Piggy's dressing room door flew open, and one still-grumpy frog leaned out despite one pig's attempt to drag him back in for more calming-down...so to speak. "What now?" he grumbled, looking down...and saw the photo Scooter was holding up for him, and his expression turned to one of wonder. "That...that's perfect! Where'd you find it? How much?"

The Newsman stood bewildered but in growing pleasure at the friends grouping around him, beginning to smile as Muppet after Muppet pressed his hand or slapped his broad shoulders and thanked him, and looked up happily at the dawning grin on his boss' face.

Maybe this month would be better. Not _calmer..._ but definitely _better._

 _fin_


	67. Author's note

_Thanks for reading! I've always had a soft spot for the Newsman, and Gonzo is my favorite weirdo, after my partner, who is a very manly Muppet. This story was one I originally published on Muppet Central Forum; if you enjoyed it, I highly recommend you check out some of the other great stories in the Fan Fiction section. "Kermie's Girl" by Ruahnna is especially wonderful, with high drama and ushgush._

 _Reviews welcome!_


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